


Sugar Storm

by folamh



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Canon Elements, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Falling In Love, GONE GIRL AU, Gone Girl plot elements - Implied/referenced suicide and rape/non-con, M/M, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, murder investigation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-11-06 16:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 67,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folamh/pseuds/folamh
Summary: 'You ever heard the expressionsimplest answer is often the correct one?'Freddie says, almost sing-song and her bony fingers practically itch for the photocopies in Jack's hands.'You know,' Jack replies, turning another page of Will's boxy handwriting. 'I've never found that to be true.'---On the evening of their fifth anniversary, Hannibal Lecter's husband, Will, disappears. The FBI suspect Hannibal. Will's friends reveal that he was afraid of Hannibal, that he kept secrets from his husband. Hannibal says that isn't true. That Will was unwell, that his sense of reality was slipping. But there are things in the house Hannibal can't explain. There are rooms he won't let the FBI go.Which leaves everyone asking the same question- why didn't anyone help Will Graham?





	1. Hannibal Lecter: The Day Of

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maydei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maydei/gifts).



**The Day Of**

 

When Hannibal thinks of Will, he always thinks of his stomach.

Perhaps it’s genetics, or maybe Will’s body is forever to be caved in the way it slopes at his abdomen after early years of boatyard hunger, but Will’s stomach seems to never be as round as Hannibal’s.

Will’s stomach stays stubborn, tucked beneath his ribs like a shirt, Hannibal tracing its concave line with both defeat and admiration in the dark nights they lie together in bed. Hannibal has laid his head on this stomach so many times. Has kissed the dark hairs that split it down the middle like a dissection.

Hannibal thinks of tearing it open, unspooling the intestines and feeling Will’s blood between his fingers. He thinks of cupping the organ in his palm, asking it what he’s found himself unwilling to ask Will. _What are you thinking? What do you see? Do you understand?_

Hannibal spends a great deal of his time in the kitchen with food. Creating for Will, feeding Will. The kitchen is Hannibal’s heart, his home growing around it like a shell to a pearl and he serves it to Will with flourish.

Hannibal stands in it every day, every morning and watches Will as he trails after Hannibal down the stairs, later and later in these last few months. Hannibal makes breakfast, brews coffee and talks about Irish poetry, the words fading as Will leaves the room with a sheen of sweat across his brow. Silence stretches between like web, a beat in itself to their now-familiar rhythm.

Get up. Collect mail from the box. Ignore Will’s temper, seething first thing in the morning with a daily headache he just won’t accept an aspirin for. Put water out for the dog.

Hannibal has always worked best off a checklist. He likes to end them with something that is not a requirement. Last thing on the morning checklist is kiss Will goodbye. That, at least, Will still grants him.

Today when Hannibal wakes to an empty bed, his first thought is not _Where is Will?_ as it so often is these weeks. Because Hannibal knows exactly where he is. The smell of food is faint, but there. Will must have left the bedroom door open and is currently downstairs. Cooking.

Hannibal hasn’t seen Will cook for a while now, Will’s appetite dwindling as it is. But now, as Hannibal rolls over in their large bed, he sees the bedroom door is indeed open and can just about hear the clip of pans and the steady _thwum thwum_ of a knife chopping.

Will is making breakfast. Hannibal lies in their bed, thinking about this a long few moments. It should not be so strange a thing, especially today.

Today is their five year anniversary.

Hannibal rises from the bed and gets his robe, tying it as he walks down the stairs. The smell of food is stronger now- butter, vanilla and sugar. Lemon as well, Hannibal can tell. He has always been blessed with a remarkable sense of smell.

Will used to call him _bloodhound_. Not anymore though. Now, Will just bares his teeth in grimace whenever Hannibal comments that he can smell the stale peanuts and cheap beer of a bar when Will comes in late. He calls Hannibal a snob, before leaving in the same step he’d walk in on with the dog beside him.  

In the kitchen, Will is making crêpes. Poorly making crêpes. Hannibal can see how Will struggles to get an even spread across the pan and smells burnt butter. But Hannibal is still too genuinely surprised to even comment on that. Because not only is Will making breakfast, Will is smiling as he does it. Half-humming, in and out like a breath, to a song that plays on the radio Hannibal does not recognise.

Hannibal is transported, rather disarmingly, back to their early courtship. Will used to laugh at Hannibal’s flair then, quietly flattering in the way he’d scoff when Hannibal could toss an egg and split it on the downfall with the edge of a spatula. That was so long ago that now, faced with Will laughing at himself as he fails to flip the crêpe, Hannibal gets the distinct impression that there is a joke going over his head. Or under his ribs.

A husband shouldn’t find the laughter of their spouse a warning. But he and Will have never been the most conventional to begin with.

‘Are you going to take pity on me here, or just watch me suffer,’ Will says, dooming the mangled crêpe to a burn as he interrupts himself to address Hannibal across the cooking island.

Hannibal rolls one shoulder back, instinctively set on the defensive and Will notices immediately. He always does. Will’s smile falters- just slightly and Hannibal’s hands twitch in the pockets of his robe. Muscle memory.

‘I would never let you suffer,’ Hannibal says and Will tsks then, just the edge of mean and that is just like Will. Will gets so offended, when Hannibal thinks that. _Just like Will_. And Will always knows when Hannibal thinks that, too.

 ‘You never let me do anything,’ Will counters back and it’s that funny liminal space again. The no-man’s land their conversations seem to constantly fall into, stuck in the dirt between fight and flight.  
  
Hannibal doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he walks around to Will and places a hand over his on the frying pan. Will’s hands are calloused from boat motors, his knuckles scrape against Hannibal’s palm and Hannibal pauses, just to feel that. There is a quiet ache in his chest. Will laughs again, leans his weight into Hannibal’s.  
  
‘You won’t even let me finish murdering these pancakes.’

‘You asked for assistance.’  
  
 ‘I asked for you.’

Hannibal doesn’t know how to answer that. This moment, this strange and worried little moment between them is like shadow cast from the sun after it’s been spun in the opposite direction. Hannibal turns his head, smells the shampoo and sugar in Will’s hair. They’re an even height and Will squirms, his ear tickled it seems.

Hannibal feels that ache again. It’s as if time has reversed for this one, close minute and Hannibal is walking backwards. Toes first, heel second and blind to anything behind him. It’s- unsettling.

Will tilts his head, regards the crêpe and moves the pan off the heat. ‘I think it’s a goner.’

‘I’ll make you the next one,’ Hannibal says, gently taking control and Will for a second stands firm, like he might resist, but in the end he doesn’t. He just sinks like a stone, moving aside as Hannibal steps up to the stovetop. ‘You’ve made the batter. The hard work is already done. And all the sweeter, from the amount of vanilla you seem to have put in it.’

‘I knew you’d smell it,’ Will sighs, patting Hannibal’s shoulder like they were colleagues in the canteen. It leaves Hannibal feeling cold. ‘I wasn’t paying attention, overflowed the cap.’

‘We have measuring spoons.’

‘The cap is a measuring spoon.’

‘Not when spilled over,’ Hannibal teases, but Will isn’t smiling anymore.

Instead, when Hannibal looks to him, Will is staring at the back of the kitchen, out past the glass doors of the patio. It’s snowing outside, early enough for there to still be a clinging dark to the sky. Hannibal saves the pan from the ruined crêpe, gently stirs the batter Will has made before ladling a fresh spoonful. It sizzles and a hot, sweet butter smell fills the space.

‘Happy anniversary, Will.’

Will blinks; looking at Hannibal as if he’s just realised Hannibal is there. Like Will has been dreaming this last while and is now awake.

Will’s eyes are the colour of dishwater under the yellow kitchen light; grey and Hannibal keeps his hands on the pan, around the spatula. He does not run his finger along where Will’s jawline feathers in brown-black stubble.

Will smiles again, a fragile thing and Hannibal can smell it with the crêpes, another sweet note. Fever. Just like that, the lucidity is gone. Hannibal flips the crêpe.

‘Happy anniversary, Hannibal.’

 

 

* * *

 

 

Franklyn Froideveux is a frenetic, twitchy creature and upon a “chance” meeting at the opera almost two years ago, Will had hated him instantly. Hannibal always thinks this first and foremost before anything else when Franklyn arrives for his fortnightly therapy. He thinks it now, as Hannibal opens the door to reveal Franklyn already half out of a seat, teetering on the balls of his wide feet.

 _My husband hates you,_ Hannibal thinks as Franklyn stammers a compliment to Hannibal on his suit, brushing past Hannibal (too close) as he enters Hannibal’s office. Hannibal thanks him and closes the door with a snap.

Franklyn is growing a beard. It’s patchy, not very well groomed and Hannibal tries not to breathe too deeply lest he cough on the overpowering cologne Franklyn has apparently decided to bathe himself in. Loathsome, cheap and most certainly with a ship on the bottle.

Hannibal sits in his chair, mirror-face to the one Franklyn fidgets in. Franklyn sits far forward, hands wringing over his knees. Hannibal relaxes until his back hits his own chair, and keeps his hands steadily clasped on his lap. Hannibal wonders how conscious of it, Franklyn is.

At first look, Franklyn is easy to dismiss for his crippling neuroses and devastatingly low self-esteem. A perfect cocktail of desperation in being wanted, and yet being so self-indulgent in demanding that want it renders him repulsive. But as Hannibal sits, watching Franklyn try more and more to emulate Will in small ways, he entertains the idea that Franklyn stands at home before his mirror. His short, fat body turning this way and that, wondering where he can tuck little parts of Will into him. Hannibal always appreciates the application of a well-tailored persona.

Something Franklyn doesn’t have, unfortunately. Franklyn’s jumper is too tight. It chokes the collar of his shirt.

‘I like the daisies,’ Franklyn says, smiling too wide as he gestures to the small bouquet of the flowers Hannibal has sitting in water on his desk.

They are a cross-stitch of chamomile and oxeye bunches, peppered with sprigs of silver ragwort. Hannibal inclines his head gratefully, but does not comment on them further. Franklyn licks his lips, hovers. Hannibal is already feeling impatient.

‘Traditional, right? I’m a bit of a flower buff, myself. We have that in common. Remember, we met at the florist that time? I always think I might catch you there again.’

Unfortunately, Will had not been present then to witness another circumstantial run-in with Franklyn that was anything but. However, Hannibal had been rewarded with Will’s great displeasure upon arriving home and telling Will he had met Franklyn once more across the roses and tulips.

Will had pulled a face, tapped the armrest of the chair he had been folded into and given Hannibal a very stern look, as though it were somehow Hannibal’s fault Franklyn had decided to follow him. _That guy really is the worst,_ Will had commented when Hannibal told of Franklyn’s choice of foxgloves that day, before dragging Hannibal down in a manner most undignified. Hannibal’s flowers had wilted in the foyer without water, Will had him distracted so long.

Hannibal might’ve smiled, before, when remembering this moment. Would’ve felt the tug in his gut, the small thorn of affection Will had splintered inside of him all those years ago. Now, Hannibal only feels the space of its absence. A hollow, down in the depth of him so small it almost shouldn’t matter. Terribly, it seems to matter a great deal, despite Hannibal’s best efforts.

‘Did you pick them up this morning?’

‘This afternoon,’ Hannibal admits, before taking a small breath. Tasting that acrid cologne again. ‘Tell me, Franklyn, what would you like to discuss today? We have a shorter session, but I’m sure we can still achieve what you need for the time we have.’ 

‘Yeah. Yes,’ Franklyn says distractedly, dark beady eyes flickering between the flowers and Hannibal. Hannibal’s thumb twitches and if Will were here- or rather, if Will were here as he was, he would notice and touch Hannibal like a steel rod ploughs earth for lightning. But Will is not here and Hannibal must ground himself.

How lazy, marriage has made him.

‘It’s actually a bit disappointing, knowing we have less time today. I know why, of course I wouldn’t want you to- I just mean, you know.’ Franklyn really does have such a terrible habit of stuttering. ‘You must have plans. I understand. It’s good of you to see me so late anyway.’

They’re circling it, what Franklyn wishes to talk about and what Hannibal will not.

‘Congratulations, by the way,’ Franklyn adds lamely and Hannibal feigns ignorance, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head. Franklyn is chastened immediately, but not dissuaded. He never is. ‘Your anniversary. I saw it, in the papers.’

He means _TattleCrime,_ of course. The gaping, hungry infant of a newspaper that is the creation of Freddie Lounds. Tabloid, sensationalist and, like Franklyn, repulsive. Hannibal thinks of Miss Lounds, her rusted corkscrew hair and talon fingers forever clutching her phone, her tapes, her pen.

 _My husband hates you,_ Hannibal thinks as he pictures her narrow face. He does nearly smile this time. Will would sooner invite Franklyn to join them in their bed than have Miss Lounds even darken the front gate. Three years since Will has quit active profiling for the FBI, and still Miss Lounds spins him like thread in her stories, eternally fascinated with the mind that could _think like one to get one._ That fervent interest for Will is one of the few things she and Hannibal have in common.

‘Five years. That’s what the daisies are for, right? Like I said, flower buff. Daisies are for five, I read that before.’ Franklyn is still withering on and Hannibal doesn’t smile but keeps his voice soft when he replies; ‘The flowers are not for my husband.’

This is, strictly speaking, true. Hannibal will not take the flowers home. Franklyn flushes horribly, an ugly red across his spiky cheeks and if Hannibal could see his thick neck, it would no doubt be there, too. He raises a hand, waves it frantically and Hannibal wonders briefly what Franklyn would do if Hannibal were to grab it and bend it back until the wrist snaps. Franklyn is not embarrassed though, not really. What he really is, is shrinking under Hannibal’s use of the word _husband_. Hannibal never uses Will’s name in therapy. He prefers the possessive.  

‘Oh, sorry- I just thought…’

Franklyn trails off and Hannibal mentally counts how much longer they have to go. Just less than thirty long minutes and then Hannibal can go home. He wonders what Will has done with his day, if Will’s fever will have eased.

In his mind, Hannibal is already there. He can recreate their home so perfectly from memory, Will even more vivid here than he seems to be person. The Will in his mind clicks his tongue, humoured. _Rude_ , he says of Hannibal’s mind wandering. They used to spend hours in this room, Will and he, and Hannibal would never have dared count the seconds lest he miss something.   
  
Will’s mind had been something glittering then- swift and slipping between streams, siren call with teeth that were sharp, sharp, sharp and Hannibal had wanted to brush nets through what swam there. Wanted to push through Will’s mind like waves and wrap his hand around the empathy that burned deep in Will’s heart until Hannibal’s fingers were burnt to the bone and couldn’t possibly hold on any longer.  
  
Hannibal looks at his hands now. Looks at the ring Will has given him, the steel silver of it. Like water and Hannibal is drowned, washed away into the quiet of the stream. _What are you thinking? Do you understand?_ Hannibal can never see things the way Will can. Could.

‘-I never see him at the opera anymore,’ Franklyn continues and Hannibal moves at that, reaching for his notebook. The leather is soft to touch, paper thick beneath his pen as he makes a note. A gift from Will, this notebook. ‘And you go rarely now, I hope you don’t mind that I noticed. I get it. It’s hard to see the opera alone, I know I much prefer it with company.’

‘My husband is unwell,’ Hannibal says mildly, closing the notebook and he watches Franklyn across their space. Franklyn is leaning forward again, perched on the edge of his chair almost. ‘I stay with him now, when I can. Would you like to talk about why you find the opera less engaging alone?’

‘Unwell, oh no. Is it serious?’ Franklyn askes, eyes wide. Hannibal closes his hand, steadying himself.

‘My personal life is not the subject of our therapy, Franklyn,’ Hannibal says patiently though he is feeling far from patient. Something pulled inside him then, offended at Franklyn’s mere suggestion that Will might be suffering something of the kind Hannibal could not have prevented. ‘We would be better served discussing you. It is your time, after all.’

‘But we’re friends!’ Franklyn says pathetically and Hannibal opens his notebook for another note. ‘I’m concerned about you. And Will, of course. But it can’t be easy looking after someone who’s sick.’  
  
Hannibal pauses in his note-taking, fixing Franklyn with a stare. Hannibal doesn’t like anyone to use Will’s name without permission and while he is sure Franklyn is too stupid to have noticed this careful conversational positioning, Hannibal will not forgive him that stupidity forever.

‘I am not your friend, Franklyn,’ Hannibal says, underlining something in his notes if only to give Franklyn a visual cue. ‘I am a source of stability as your therapist. That is all.’

‘But I want to help you!’ Franklyn says desperately, reaching out and Hannibal doesn’t recoil, would never be so rude as to do so but he does adjust in his seat. Sits up a little straighter, staring Franklyn down. ‘You can talk to me about it, if you want to. It must be on your mind. Especially with the anniversary this evening. Did you get the chance to buy a gift, if you’re not going with the flowers?’

If any of it was done on purpose, Franklyn’s ability to frame a conversation so he must be answered would be impressive. As it is, it’s a bit like when Will talks to the dog and the animal happens to make a noise back. Will always looks so pleased by this display of apparent intelligence. Hannibal never quite understands it, himself.

Hannibal continues to make his notes, flippantly says; ‘I do not need your help with my marriage, Franklyn. Thank you.’

Franklyn frowns, worries his bottom lip. ‘I didn’t think your marriage needed help.’

Hannibal realises his misstep far, far too late. His pen hovers, mid-sentence and Franklyn inches closer again. Bends low and turns his head, like one might consider a child and Hannibal resists the urge to take his pen and drive it through Franklyn’s small, black eyeball.

‘Does your marriage need help, Doctor Lecter?’

Hannibal doesn’t answer. Outside, a siren blares.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s a twelve minute drive between his office and home. Hannibal decides to walk, despite the snow that drifts idly and takes an umbrella he has left for such occasion with him from the coat closet.

As he locks his office, the landline phone rings. Hannibal considers for a moment before deciding against it. It’s well past his office hours, and as it chimes to life again after going unanswered the first time, Hannibal decides that whomever has decided to call on his and Will’s anniversary deserves the discourtesy of being ignored in kind.  
  
There truly is no need for the walk. The car is perfect, the weather quite mild snow for a November evening. But Hannibal wants the time. More than that, he wants to give Will the time. Hannibal would never be so plain as to call it a test. But it’s their anniversary, and Hannibal is curious to see what will happen. He wonders if Will will worry, if he’ll call or perhaps even come looking. 

Before he leaves the building, Hannibal checks his own phone, only to be surprised to find it dead.   
  
Hannibal files that away as he walks out onto the street, umbrella blooming above him as he goes. It could be nothing. The wiring of the socket could need repair, the house is old. Could be the charging cable, their nature being to wear despite good care. Hannibal thinks it could be a great deal of things. It does not change his mind about the walk. If anything, it interests Hannibal all the more to see what Will might do. Regardless of everything, Will always expects Hannibal to be where he says he’ll be.  
  
By the time Hannibal makes it to Chandler Square, it’s well over an hour and the ends of his trousers are soaked through with snow. Hannibal doesn’t feel it, or rather has suffered worse cold in his life as to not be bothered by it. The street of mismatched houses is striped with orange streetlight, bouncing off dark cars and icy road. The evening is black around them and the lights guide him home.

Hannibal pauses at the house just before theirs, eyes tracking a movement that should not be there.

Winston, the dog, is trotting down the street. Its tufted ears are pricked, shiny eyes on Hannibal and suddenly the dog is running. It streaks blond-red from streetlamps and its fur is beginning to clump with damp. It’s been out for some time. Hannibal stands as the dog winds about his feet, agitated and whimpering. Hannibal frowns at it, unmoved but curious. Will never lets the dog out alone.

Hannibal looks up, but there is no Will. The dog is without and Hannibal feels it then. That cold, hollow feeling of Will’s absence inside. Hannibal is still not used to it, still surprised when it spikes inside of him when Will is gone. Waiting for Will at home, only to be forced to take the long drive out to Quantico to find Will sat there, seemingly lost to a fever dream. Waking in their empty bed as a Will sleepwalks through some place only he can see, his bare feet sinking into the soft winter earth when Hannibal finds him in the garden. Hannibal knows this now, this feeling. It’s familiar like the smell of pine, the bright yellow hair of his sister spilled across forest floor like ink.  
  
Hannibal doesn’t quite run the rest of the way, except that he does.  
  
It’s not just the gate, the front doors are open, too. Not ajar, not by accident like Will has simply lapsed in seeing if the latch hooked. No. Hannibal walks through the gate, steady on the path he had gritted that morning up towards the steps. Both doors are open, pushed wide like a wound and the house is bright inside, pouring light out onto the snowy steps and black branch bushes. Will prefers the dark.  
  
When she walks out, Hannibal doesn’t even see her for who she is at first. She’s blacked out, a shadow and he casts the umbrella down, intending to drive it straight through her stomach. The instinct in him is churning, electric and close to sparking off into something brilliant when she throws her hands up in surrender, catching Hannibal by surprise halfway up the front steps. 

‘Hannibal! Where have you been? What are you doing?’  
  
Alana Bloom reveals herself, hopping down the steps as Hannibal rises. Her dark hair fans, catches snow so bright it lingers there in white snowflakes. Her cheeks are unevenly pink, her lipstick worn away in the centre from nervously licking it. She has her phone clasped tightly in a red, gloved hand. Hannibal drops the umbrella and it bounces, falls away down the steps as Hannibal goes to enter the house. Alana grabs him by the arm.  
  
‘I’ve been trying to call you. I’ve been trying for over an hour.’ Alana would sound scolding if Hannibal could focus on anything but that shrill, breathless way her voice goes when she’s worried. ‘I thought you’d be home, where have you been?’  
  
‘I had trouble with the car,’ Hannibal lies, looking past Alana’s shoulder into the house. The foyer is empty, the flowers on the hall table undisturbed. ‘What is happening? Where’s Will?’  
  
Alana has a pale face, so it is painfully obvious when it turns a colour it shouldn’t. The hot, red flash of panic that spills over her. Ugly warning on someone usually so lovely. But it means nothing- Hannibal has known something is wrong from the moment he saw the dog, who hovers behind Hannibal in sentinel. Will would never let the dog out. Would never leave their home open like this. Hannibal walks up the last step.  
  
‘Hannibal, I’ve already called the- wait!’  
  
Hannibal does not wait.  
  
He glances left, towards the main living room but dismisses instantly. Will hates it in there without Hannibal, hates sitting under the shadow of the antlers and jumping from the way they move across the room in firelight. He only likes to sit on the floor, at the far end where the harpsichord is. Hannibal goes right, for the study.  
  
He stops in the doorway, Alana coming up behind him. ‘Hannibal, I’ve called the police. It’ll be alright, they’re on their way.’  
  
There are papers on the floor. Uneven with pages bent and half having fallen beneath the drinks trolley from where they have spilled. They had been on the coffee table that morning, a small pile that Will has been correcting over the last few days. All the pages are out of sync with each other now. The chaise is moved, too. Pushed out from its usual place, its clawed feet have bunched the rug up from it, the displacement obvious. There’s broken glass on the rug. Shimmering in the lamplight.  
  
The tea table at the chaise’s edge, however, is undisturbed. Not even the top-heavy candlestick Will had chosen himself, five years ago while wandering the antique shops of Florence, has not moved from the ring it’s paled for itself on the table surface.  
  
Something is wrong.  
  
Hannibal feels it swell inside like a great tide suddenly. Anger. Hannibal tries to control it, tries to swallow it but suddenly his body is contorting in on itself, or so it feels. The very marrow of his bones curdling in the wake of some gross, terrible rage that Hannibal has not known for some time.

Someone has been in their home. Someone unwelcome, someone foolish beyond belief to think Hannibal could see this display and believe it. And now-

‘Where is Will?’ Hannibal asks, lower this time and Alana stops where she is rubbing Hannibal’s arm in what she might think is soothing. He looks at Alana, curls his hands into fists and she steps back. ‘Alana. Where is he?’  
  
‘I- I don’t know,’ Alana says, lip quivering and Hannibal has the intense urge to grab it between his fingers, hold it steady so she might not stammer and answer him clearly. He keeps his fists down. ‘I got here an hour ago. I was returning- it doesn’t matter. The door was open when I arrived.’ Alana gestures behind them, back where the doors are as they’ve left them. Hannibal has forgotten the cold until this moment, as the wind blows in. ‘I thought… I thought maybe Will was having one of his episodes.’  
  
Ah. Alana would, Hannibal supposes.  
  
‘I tried searching the house first. When I saw this I was worried maybe he’d hurt himself. I couldn’t find him, or Winston,’ Alana reaches out and pets the dog where it stands next to Hannibal, her hand shaking. ‘I went outside, tried calling. Then I called you.’

Suddenly, Alana snaps straight, stares at Hannibal head on.

‘Where _were_ you, Hannibal? I called you a thousand times, you wouldn’t answer.’  
  
‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Hannibal says, because it really and truly doesn’t. He is bubbling beneath a very thin surface and is quite worried Alana is about to bear the brunt of it. He raises a hand, fingers aloft the way he used to do when he was lecturing. It would silence the room. It silences Alana now, like it did when she was his student. ‘You haven’t found Will. So what have you done?’

Alana looks indignant for a moment. ‘I called you. A lot.’

‘So you’ve said,’ Hannibal snaps, uncharacteristically rude and Alana blinks, thrown. ‘What else have you done?’

‘I’ve called the police. They’ll be here soon, any minute,’ Alana replies, switching tracks back to comfort and when she reaches for Hannibal, he flinches back away from her. He doesn’t want her to touch him. But when Hannibal takes a step towards the mess, Alana grabs him by the coat. Her small, red fist bunched in his lapel. ‘You can’t go in there. 

‘I wish to have a closer look,’ Hannibal says but Alana tugs on him, insistent.

‘The police said not to disturb the crime scene,’ she says and Hannibal wants to grab her. Wants to shake her and shove her for the comment, remind her that he is married to Will Graham, has been for five years today. Hannibal knows how a crime scene works.  
  
And this is not a crime scene.


	2. Will Graham: January 8th

**January 8th, 2013.  
  
** ****  
  
_It’s 7:16pm. I’m in Baltimore, Maryland,_ Will writes into the notebook. The pen is fountain style and bleeds, pooling letters together. His writing is boxy, child-like and Will is very conscious of it as the page he’s writing on is already marked in absurdly elegant script along the top with the date. He finishes with a stubborn full stop that might’ve punctured the page if the notebook were cheap. It isn’t.  
  
_My name is Will Graham._  
  
It’s the second time they’ve met alone, fourth altogether. And Will is counting. Can’t really seem to help it though he won’t admit it. Dr Lecter is the kind of person who demands acknowledgement- so naturally, Will tries to do so as minimally as possible.

Dr Lecter sits across from him in the obscenely grand room he calls a therapy office. It’s cathedral in its grandeur and Will has hated it from the first time he stepped in and he hates it still. Dr Lecter is reclined, one hand poised beneath his chin and Will keeps his eyes fixed on the elbow of it.  
  
‘You’re right. I feel better already,’ Will says glibly, thrusting the notebook back out towards Dr Lecter.

Dr Lecter does not move to take the book. Instead, he raises the fingers of his other hand where it lies on his knee, graciously declining. The trousers he’s wearing are a deep, patterned violet and, of course, are part of a three piece set. In the low lighting, it looks almost funereal.

Will shakes the notebook slightly. ‘Your book, Doctor Lecter.’  
  
‘You should keep it,’ Dr Lecter says blandly but Will hunches his shoulder, defensive.

Dr Lecter has an accent, European and exotic. It makes everything he says sound strangely targeted, like an insult, which Will knows isn’t fair, but what can he do? European is still European.

‘I truly believe it will help you. A simple reminder, when you go to dark places. Where, when.’ Dr Lecter’s eyes are steady. Like a mast. ‘Who you are. Written down for you to see.’

  
‘I know who I am,’ Will retorts, nettled. He meets Dr Lecter’s gaze, the notebook still outstretched. ‘And I can buy my own notebook.’  
  
‘You have already started with this one. Seems a shame to waste it now.’  
  
Will does not point out that the rest of the notebook is blank. He does not point out that Dr Lecter could tear out the page, simply cross out the sentence Will has scribbled or do anything else so as to make it useful again. Will also doesn’t point out that he knows Dr Lecter got this notebook specifically for Will and this purpose. Will doesn’t have to. He’ll just return it.  
  
But Will retreats for now, closes the notebook and puts it on the arm of his chair. The chairs here are square, austere and not designed to be sat on for a truly long time. Will glances over to Dr Lecter, waits for him to say something and already knowing he won’t. Dr Lecter has the entire space dedicated to purpose; trimmed down like the sharp end of scalpel. This is not a place of comfort. Dr Lecter does not appear to be that kind of therapist. Will thinks it may be one of the few things he likes about him.

‘A bit minimal, isn’t it?’ Will says, trying for humour and missing. Dr Lecter tilts his head, attentive and Will has to look away again. ‘DIY therapy. Writing my own reassurances.’

‘Would you prefer something more direct?’ Dr Lecter asks and the hairs on the back of Will’s neck stand up. It sends a shiver, right down his back. ‘I was of the impression you were not entirely pleased the last time when I, as you said, _rubber stamped_ you.’

Will itches, scratches at his chin as the embarrassment seeps. Of course Dr Lecter would’ve noticed. Of course. He doesn’t answer straight away and that’s an answer in itself. Will hates therapy.

‘You did that for you,’ Will say, giving in but going on the offensive. ‘To have a conversation with me without obstruction. Right?’ Will taps his temple. ‘Free range crazy.’

Just like every other psychiatrist, only smarter about it. Will would be impressed, if it didn’t piss him off so much.   
  
'I do prefer to consume as ethically as I can,' Dr Lecter replies and Will is always so wrong-footed when Dr Lecter makes a joke.   
  
'Ethical isn't exactly the word that comes to mind.'  
  
'If it's your mind you're worried about, ethical is something I can provide but you eye my prescription pad the way most eye the end of a needle. Don't think I haven't noticed.'  
  
'You'd be a pretty lack lustre psychiatrist if you didn't.'   
  
Dr Lecter's mouth thins. Will can't tell if that's good or not.He isn’t entirely sure why Dr Lecter rubs him up the wrong way. But he goes against the grain of Will every time.

'We are not all out to sedate you, Will.'  
  
'Aren't you?' Will asks, rubbing at his eyes because that was rude and Will doesn't even think it's true. At least not in this case. 'Sometimes... I don't know. I think it might easier.'  
  
'Sedation?'  
  
'Absence,' Will corrects, twitching as something moves in the corner of his eye. There's nothing there. 'I feel about as useful as any other tool Jack wheels out and twice as worn as any victim.'  
  
Will flinches, suddenly embarrassed by himself.  
  
'Sorry. I didn't mean- I know it's not that bad.'  
  
'I think you know exactly how bad it is,' Dr Lecter says gently and that riles Will up more than anything else. Will doesn't want him to be gentle, doesn't want to be anyone someone needs to be gentle with. 'You put yourself between what the killers do and the consequences of their actions. Do you know what happens to the noose once the execution is over?'  
  
Will looks at Dr Lecter through his fingers, the space between them loaded. Dr Lecter tilts his head slightly and Will feels like his scent's been caught by something that prowls low.  
  
'They use it for the next one,' Dr Lecter continues, treating Will's gaze like a handshake. 'And the next, and the next. Until the rope wears thin and snaps, and the killer's throat is saved for another day.'  
  
'So you're saying I'm going to break myself in my work for Jack before finishing the job? That's some impressive psychiatry, Doctor. It's a wonder I haven't come to you before,' Will jabs aimlessly and he looks away, because for some reason, it still cut him to hear it. Dr Lecter doesn't even acknowledge Will's fight, it's so below him.  
  
'I'm on your side, Will,' Dr Lecter says and Will shrinks in his chair. 'If I can help you, I will.'  
  
'Why?' Will asks, wishing to be anywhere else. 'I'm not paying you. I'm not even sure if Jack is paying you.'

‘Are you worried I am trying to take advantage, Will?’ Dr Lecter says and he joins his hands, settles them on his lap and Will watches the whole time. Looks at Dr Lecter’s perfectly manicured fingers and wonders how long it took to get the blood off. ‘Always so quick to bite. Like the dog who’s been hit too many times.’

‘You shouldn’t hit a dog,’ Will says, mostly because it’s true and also because he doesn’t want to answer that either.   
  
'I never have.'  
  
Will shouldn't find that as comforting as he does. 'Good to know.'  
  
'I have hunted, however,' Dr Lecter adds and Will freezes, mind scattering instantly. If Dr Lecter suspects he has Will spooked, he doesn't show it. 'So don't consider me too altruistic towards god's creatures.'  
  
'Hunting isn't immoral,' Will offers and he knows they are both thinking about it. The thing Will hasn't brought up yet.  
  
'While best eaten without morality, a meal of anything should have some presence of conscience.'  
  
The room suddenly goes dark at its edges, a photograph underdeveloped and Will takes a breath to steady himself.  
  
When Will closes his eyes, he can still see Garrett-Jacob Hobbs so clearly. Will had shot the man ten times. Almost the entire round. Garret-Jacob Hobbs had flailed, billowed like a sheet on the line as he fell back from the force of it all. He had died slowly, muttering and sweating in the corner of his kitchen where he had collapsed, Will standing over him in the wreckage Hobbs had wrought over his family home.  
  
And Dr Lecter had been there, right behind.

With Will’s eyes open, he finds himself always going back to Dr Lecter’s hands. He remembers them around Abigail Hobb’s neck- strong, steadfast and bloody as they held where her father had slit her throat. Will fidgets with his own hands now, aware of how much they shook after killing Hobbs. That desperation lingers in Will, a cold that won’t thaw and Dr Lecter is there, in Will’s mind, like the small flame of a match to it.

Alright. Maybe Will has a small idea what it is that’s rubbing.

‘I visited Abigail this morning,’ Dr Lecter says conversationally, like this were any normal thing which of course it isn’t. Dr Lecter changes the subject in the opposite manner anyone else might. Will is all the more aware of what they’re not talking about now. ‘She seems more present. As though she is finding small parts of herself again, foraging in the forest in which we’ve left her.’

Will tries to appear casually interested. He fails this, too. ‘Feeling paternal, Doctor Lecter?’

‘Yes,’ Dr Lecter replies, and he does that, too. Honesty disguised as earnest. ‘Aren’t you, Will?’

‘I wanted to see her. But Alana said it wouldn’t be… a healthy choice.’

‘Alana may be right,’ Dr Lecter says and Will feels an unjustified stab of betrayal that Dr Lecter has not immediately taken his side. ‘You did kill her father.’

‘Her father was a murderer,’ Will says, already leaping to defend himself and unable to stop it. Like a geyser, it pressures up out of him in steam and heat and noise. The need to explain. ‘And a cannibal. He was going to kill her.’

‘Murderer. Cannibal. Father,’ Dr Lecter replies, eyes moving across the room as he spoke. He does that, too. Will has noticed that when Dr Lecter becomes aware he’s been meeting Will’s eye too long, he’ll break as if to give Will a chance to recover. Will always has the urge to grab Dr Lecter by the chin, turn his face and make him look.

 _See,_ a voice crackles in the back of Will’s mind. As though static from a radio, Garret-Jacob Hobbs’ dying words fizzle in Will’s ear. _See?_

‘Do you truly feel Garret-Jacob Hobbs could not have been all of these things at once?’ Dr Lecter says, his hands so still when Will looks again.

Dr Lecter doesn’t have a ring. Will wonders if that means he’s really unmarried, or if it’s a choice to go without. Dr Lecter doesn’t seem like he’s married though.

‘We are not creatures of a single existence. There are things in the earth that grow in roots. They colour leaves. He could love her and kill for her.’  
  
Will sees it coming, still can’t stop it.  
  
‘Just like you can,’ Dr Lecter says softly, and he’s looking at Will again. Will looks back, unmoored and drifting the dark, red colour of Dr Lecter’s eyes.  
  
‘I’d like to see her,’ Will says, because it’s all he can think right now. Last time he saw her, she had been asleep in a hospital bed. Before that, the seventeen year-old was being taken away in the ambulance from her family home-now-crime scene. There was blood in her brown hair, in her mouth. It had turned her teeth orange.  
  
‘We can arrange that,’ Dr Lecter says and Will blinks, thrown. His voice is slightly breathless when he speaks. Will’s caught off guard.  
  
‘But, Alana-’  
  
‘Like I said, Alana may be right in thinking it is not the healthiest decision,’ Dr Lecter concedes, but Will waits because he knows that’s not all. ‘It does not mean it is the wrong one.’  
  
Will doesn’t dare hope, but it’s already there. Like a root in the trees Dr Lecter has mentioned, colouring his leaves. The trees were bare when he had killed Garret-Jacob Hobbs. Black, spider-like and stretching across the sky. Will curbs himself, imagines a rope around his neck and yanks.

‘You’ll tell Jack,’ he says, because Will is not stupid. Will hasn’t signed anything, has paid nothing. He is not protected from the roaming eye and pricked ear of his boss, the head of the Behavioural Science Unit at the FBI.  

Dr Lecter doesn’t speak for what feels like a long time. Will wonders what Dr Lecter is thinking, watches the way his dark eyes track briefly over Will’s face. Down his nose, across his jaw. His lips. Then back up to Will’s gaze.

‘Jack worries for you,’ Dr Lecter says at last and Will grits his teeth. For, not _about_ and Will hates to be managed like this. ‘If I can ease his malaise, I will.’

‘What about patient confidentiality?’

‘You are not my patient.’

‘I thought this was therapy.’

‘It can be. If that is what you need.’  
  
Will doesn’t reply. Instead, he stands suddenly from his chair as it had felt, just then, like it were opening up beneath him like water. Ready to swallow him. Will walks away, towards the windows that stand tall, slim and orange from the street-lamps outside. He rubs at his face, hears his stubble _scritch_ against his fingers.  
  
‘Does anyone ever use that?’ Will asks, pointing needlessly to a long, elegant chaise that sits perpendicular to them. Dr Lecter does not answer, he’s still watching Will instead. Will can feel his eyes on his back like a touch and Will tries not to squirm under the scrutiny.  
  
‘So, which is it, Will?’ Dr Lecter asks, unseen behind Will’s back. ‘Are you my patient or are we simply having conversations?’  
  
‘Yes, I think is the answer to that.’  
  
‘Then perhaps you should ask me the question,’ Dr Lecter says and Will’s breath catches in his throat. He waits, listens to traffic outside. A car passes and for a moment, the windows illuminate white and the frames criss-cross of the gossamer curtains. Will feels like he’s in aftershocks, the ringing of a gun going off deep inside.  
  
‘What protects me?’ Will asks, carelessly he realises too late as the hard, worn edge of his voice is entirely genuine and all the more damning for it. He turns and looks at Dr Lecter, whose face is as inscrutable as it always seem to be. The calm, clear expression of a doctor.  
  
‘I do,’ Dr Lecter says, more surely and the worst part, Will suddenly feels, is that Will believes him. 

Will really shouldn’t believe him.

‘That easy?’ Will asks and Dr Lecter bows his head.

‘That easy.’

‘Do I have to sign on? Pay you?’

‘Are we still discussing therapy?’

‘No,’ Will admits and looks away again, a little embarrassed. ‘One and a half sessions hardly counts as therapy to begin with though.’

‘Certainly not enough conversation to consider a friend either,’ Dr Lecter points out and Will hunches his shoulders. ‘Will you accompany me to see Abigail this week?’

‘Maybe,’ Will says instead of _yes._ ‘I might be teaching.’

‘Or hunting,’ Dr Lecter suggests and Will looks out the window. His reflection looks like Hobbs and Will puts his hands in his pockets as they shake. ‘You’ve certainly wet Jack’s appetite.’

‘Better deliver bread to the table then,’ Will says and he sits down on the chaise after all. Dr Lecter doesn’t move. ‘Alana’s warned him off me.’

‘Do you think of her as sufficient warning?’

‘I think of her as sufficient buffer.’

‘You think of her often, I would guess,’ Dr Lecter says and Will snaps his head up, stuttering.

‘I- it’s not? No. Not really,’ he says, pathetically, and he puts his head in his hands. ‘God. That obvious?’

‘With someone as remarkable as yourself, it would be hard not to notice when that light shines on something particular,’ Dr Lecter says blithely and he’s so smooth about it, like it’s the goddamn weather, Will wants to punch him. ‘All the more so when it puts you in a shadow.’

Will takes a moment to unpack that.

‘Are you… jealous?’ Will asks, completely baffled. Dr Lecter looks at Will like he might smile, even laugh and Will frowns.

‘Would you like me to be?’

‘I think that’d be a whole other topic for the therapy we’re not having if you are.’

‘You said yourself you didn’t find me interesting.’

‘You’re offended,’ Will realises, far too late and he flinches in on himself as the embarrassment floods even hotter through him. ‘Jesus. Right. Of course, sorry. I shouldn’t have said- or implied? You know? Sh- never mind. I’m sorry. And sorry for calling you boring, too.’

‘So that is what you meant,’ Dr Lecter replies and Will thinks he’s making fun of him. ‘I guess I’ll have to impress.’

Will swallows. ‘You’re doing fine.’

‘Are you interested then?’ Dr Lecter asks, sounding so himself and Will chews his cheek, uncomfortable.

‘You can hold your own in a conversation,’ Will says in answer to that and Dr Lecter does smile then. It’s not a very obvious thing, a lot of it in his eyes and Will realises he’s been watching them. Will looks away. ‘And you saved Abigail’s life.’

‘You are not indebted to me for that,’ Dr Lecter says, brushing imaginary fluff from his impeccable and ridiculous trousers. ‘I am a doctor. I took an oath.’

‘Not to be her father,’ Will says without thinking but Dr Lecter speaks before he can take it back.

‘Neither did you,’ he says and Will’s looking at his eyes again. ‘But I was not alone at her bedside those first few nights.’

Will takes a small breath and picks at his cuticles, where dry skin peels. He keeps Dr Lecter’s gaze.

‘Will you come with me to see her?’ Dr Lecter asks again and Will answers truthfully this time.

‘Yes. As soon as you’d like.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Sounds fine.’

‘Excellent,’ Dr Lecter says and Will gets the distinct impression he’s just been moved around a board. Bristling, Will gets up and heads for his jacket on the back of the chair he had been sitting in.

‘I should go. It’s a long drive,’ he says, replacing his coat and Dr Lecter stands, ever the gentleman. Will waves a hand awkwardly, not sure what else to say. ‘Thanks for… just thanks. See you tomorrow.’

‘Will.’

Dr Lecter says Will's name like a greeting and Will pauses where he’s half out the door, hovering between space. Dr Lecter walks over, the notebook in his hand. He holds it out, eyes warm.

‘It is yours. You shouldn’t forget it,’ he says and Will looks at the book, conflicted.

‘You don’t have to give it to me.’

‘Of course. It would be please me if you would take it though.’

  
Will doesn’t answer that. But he takes the book, nodding _goodbye_ before heading out into the January frost


	3. Hannibal Lecter: The Day Of II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments!

**The Day Of II**  

 

Alana hasn’t just called the police.

‘Evening, Mister Lecter. Miss Bloom. We believe you’re worried about your friend, Will?’

‘My husband,’ Hannibal corrects, directing a hand behind him into the house. ‘Come, please.’

The two police officers who do arrive, close to ten minutes after Hannibal has, are out of their depth. It’s painfully obvious and Hannibal resists the urge to visibly snap at them as they bumble through his and Will’s home. They spend too long at the front doors, one wandering off to the living room despite Hannibal explaining that the evidence is in the study. When the other finally comes to the study, he swears and it’s chalk on the proverbial blackboard in Hannibal’s ear.

‘Fuck,’ this policeman says, taking out his notebook. His small, pathetic pencil. ‘This looks bad.’

Hannibal just neglects to point out the obvious. Just.

The second policeman comes in as well, and the two circle the mess at the centre of the room like flies over something decaying. Alana lingers at Hannibal’s side, practically whimpering like the dog next to her and Hannibal wants her out of the house. She won’t leave, and asking her to do so is out of the question, but Hannibal can smell her perfume, the air-freshener in her car on her hair. The house is full of alien scent and all it does is remind Hannibal that Will is not where he is meant to be.

‘Looks like he put up quite a fight,’ one of the policemen says, scratching beneath his hat at carrot-coloured hair. Hannibal’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

Will hasn’t done this. Hannibal knows that, doesn’t need the police to tell him. But Hannibal only knows it in that he knows that if Will had done it, it wouldn’t look like this. Hannibal looks at the tea table, the candlestick. No. If Will had done it, the scene would be perfect.

‘And he’s still not answering his phone?’ the other says and Hannibal doesn’t have to feign the very clear displeasure in his voice when he answers.

‘If he had, what purpose would you be?’ Hannibal says and Alana touches him. He shrugs out of her grip.

Hannibal already knows Will won’t answer the phone. Just like he knows the crime scene is not what the study is trying to tell him. He’s anxious for the next step, the real progress. It doesn’t matter where Will has gone. Only getting Will back matters now.

The police have advised he and Alana not move around the house, worried they might contaminate something but Hannibal wants to stalk every room, bend and corner. Will can’t be far, or if he is, he would not have gone without leaving something for Hannibal to find.

He needs to find whatever it may be before the police do. He needs to find Will first, but Alana acts as a better leash than anything else could. Her eyes follow Hannibal like rope, her worry making her unpredictable. The dog settles under the table of the foyer, watching everything with passive interest. It always sits there when it waits for Will.

It’s another while of waiting in the cold, answering stray questions when the police think to ask them when Hannibal realises what else Alana has done. 

‘Doctor Lecter,’ a voice says and Hannibal turns to see Jack Crawford in his foyer. Tall, broad and covered in wet snow. He’s frowning at Hannibal, hands burrowed deep in his pockets. Hannibal says nothing.

Jack hasn’t been to their home in little over three years. Alana puts herself between them- a mediator. She already senses the fight.

‘Agent Crawford,’ Hannibal says, putting a lilt to his voice. He steps forward, before stepping back. It’s what Will would do. ‘Alana called you.’

‘Someone had to,’ Jack says to that, taking off his hat. He doesn’t put it on the rack, instead he walks through and past Hannibal, down the step into the study. The other two policemen watch, a mixture of relief and confusion when Jack pulls out his badge. ‘What can you tell me so far, officers?’

‘We haven’t called the FBI,’ the red-haired policemen says and Hannibal feels that both he and Jack are together in the sudden urge to strangle him for such a stupid thing to say.

‘The man who’s missing, Will Graham, is a lecturer at Quantico and FBI official,’ Jack says with that clipped tone he used to use so often with Will. Hannibal remembers it clearly. ‘That makes it our business to find out where he is. So I’m asking you again, what can you tell me?’

As the police and Jack go over what they think happened, Hannibal paces the foyer. The situation is precarious, Hannibal is unprepared. Alana’s presence hinders, her fretting shackling Hannibal where the police want him. To behave any differently would distract them from their investigation and Hannibal does not want them looking in the same direction he is. 

Hannibal does not think about the basement. There is no reason to worry about that yet.

The two officers and Jack enter the foyer again. One heads straight out the door, radio in hand. Calling the calvary. 

‘There’s the angle of it being homophobic.’

‘What would make you think that?’ Hannibal asks and the other policeman who spoke freezes, looking caught out and gawps rudely. Hannibal clicks his tongue. ‘Like Agent Crawford said, my husband works for the FBI. The attack is likely a result of that more than anything in his personal life.’

‘We can’t rule it out, Doctor Lecter,’ Jack says patiently and Hannibal grits his teeth, frustrated. They are not on a first name basis anymore and Hannibal has no patience for the work needed to overcome this.

‘You had him tugging on the tails of killers for years, Jack,’ Hannibal says, that fury making itself known again and pleased to have something to sink its teeth into. ‘It is no surprise one has decided to turn and take a finger for his trouble.’

‘Will hasn’t been on any active cases for nearly two years,’ Jack says with a snap and Hannibal corrects without thinking.

‘Three years.’

‘What?’

‘Will resigned three years ago,’ Hannibal says and he watches Jack carefully. Jack doesn’t stumble, never does, but he twitches slightly. Hannibal tracks it to his memory instantly.

‘Right. Three years ago. Apologies,’ Jack replies, sounding anything but sorry and he’s dismissed Hannibal again, facing the police. ‘I need you to cordon the area off. Wait at the front gate for my team to arrive, they should be here soon.’

‘But we should probably call the precinct-’

‘We’ll be enough,’ Jack says and it’s exactly what Hannibal is waiting for. He puts his hand in his pocket, feels the keys there. The basement is locked.

‘We’ll have a look around, see what else we can find,’ Jack says and Hannibal tenses, in spite of himself. Jack notices immediately, chin downturned in consideration. ‘If we have your permission, doctor?’  
  
‘Of course,’ Hannibal says, realigning himself. Ironically, he is exactly what he needs to be in this situation but Hannibal is all too aware of how his affection for Will is ill-fitted to the rest of him at this moment. Will would scold if he were here. ‘Anything you need.’  
  
Jack doesn’t say thank you, but he does nod before he walks away down the hall; towards the kitchen.

The team, as it turns out, are not far behind and arrive within minutes. Hannibal knows a few of the faces- one is Price, whom Hannibal has only spoken to on a handful of occasions and hovering next to him is Zeller, who Hannibal has never spoken to. Trailing behind is Beverly Katz, a woman Hannibal has arguably become friendly with, though he hasn’t seen her in sometime. She is Will’s friend. She meets Hannibal’s eye across the foyer and goes stiff, hands twitching on the cases she’s holding. She reminds Hannibal of a spider, its legs curling in on itself. She does not smile.  
  
Alana and Hannibal are kept in the foyer, contained like a pathogen. The CSI team spread out, thick boots and metal cases a cacophony.  
  
Hannibal stands with Alana as his home is swept, feeling a strange sense of unease. There is nothing to worry about, of course. Their home is designed now to shield, remade over the years in the interest of keeping Will safe. But as Hannibal passes the study door once more, his pacing a constant tap-tap-tap of his fine shoes on the granite floor, there is a sting of failure. It smarts like a bruise and Hannibal tries to ignore it. But that pressure keeps Hannibal coming back to the study door, staring at the small numbered tags a CSI operator places next to stray glass inside.    
  
‘The basement is locked,’ Jack says, reappearing in the hallway between the foyer and the kitchen at the back of the house. Hannibal pauses, schools his face in confusion. He has mastered it, over the years. Marriage to Will has taught Hannibal a great many things.  
  
‘Will has the key,’ Hannibal lies, patting his own pockets in show. He takes out his car keys, checks each attachment before looking to Jack. ‘There is a draft. And Will- he dislikes the cold.’ The pause is entirely genuine, catching Hannibal off-guard. Nevertheless, it is half-true. Will does dislike the cold. ‘He’s been keeping it locked for some months. We really have no use for the space, so I never minded.’  
  
‘There’s only one key?’  
  
‘Yes. Most rooms in the house only have one.’  
  
‘No staff? Cleaner, dog-walker?’  
  
‘Will and I manage our own home,’ Hannibal says, ignoring the jibe that lurks beneath Jack’s questions. Suddenly, the air turns acidic with the smell of hydrogen peroxide that wafts up the hallway. It swallows Jack like a cloud. Luminol.  
  
‘I see,’ Jack says blandly and Alana steps forward, sweet perfume and Hannibal is beginning to get a headache from it all. He thinks of this morning, the scent of sugar in Will’s hair. The warm tang to Will’s skin that reminds Hannibal of chestnut doors made by hand, metallic motor oil and pine. It is always the pine that catches in Hannibal’s thoughts like fish in nets. Hannibal has spent his life walking through wood, pulling needles out of his shoes.  
  
‘Is there anything we can do, Jack? Anything else that can help?’ Alana says in a cool voice, her presence oozing comfort and Hannibal steps towards her for Jack to see.

‘What’s being done?’ Hannibal asks, impatient. Jack looks at him grimly. ‘His phone. Checkpoints. What is the FBI doing right now?’

‘Everything we can,’ Jack replies and Hannibal is struck by the surreality of this moment, of being in this situation. Of being handled by the FBI.

‘We understand that,’ Alana says gently, touching Hannibal’s arm.  
  
Alana is calm in this crisis, her own worries put second and her ability to compartmentalise has always been a trait Hannibal greatly admires in her. Here, she is a careful construct between Hannibal and Jack, between worried spouse and inconsiderate friend. She wants to give Hannibal something to do, understanding the sympathies of a husband in need. Hannibal does not need it, but he appreciates all the same. It settles inside him like a warm hand on his back.  
  
‘We’ll have to establish a timeline,’ Jack says and he looks at Hannibal. Hannibal wonders what Jack is thinking, wonders how to read the lines of Jack’s face and see his thoughts. Hannibal doesn’t have Will’s gift. ‘It would be best to get a statement from you both as soon as possible.’  
  
‘Now?’  
  
‘While it’s still fresh,’ Jack says, gesturing to Hannibal. ‘May we use your dining room? It's not a focus and it’ll be easier than going to the local precinct.'  
  
Hannibal doesn’t answer, but he leads the way. They side-step around CSI team members as though stepping across rocks in a stream.  
  
The smell of luminol reaction is stronger back here and Hannibal doesn’t like the connotation of dining space and chemical, but he doesn’t comment as he sits himself at the head of the table. Alana takes her usual seat, on Hannibal’s left and Jack takes Will’s, on the right. Hannibal has the irrational urge to ask him to move. Jack pulls out a voice recorder, standard law enforcement issue and Hannibal is hit with the realisation that Jack has intended to interview at this point all along. Everyone is still in their coats, the house cold from the doors that have been left open even this far into it.  
  
Jack turns on the recorder. ‘Alright. First things first- Hannibal, is there anyone you need to call? Will’s family, yours?’  
  
‘Will’s parents are both deceased. He is an only child,’ Hannibal says, a little interested to see Jack did not know this. ‘Two orphans. We are each other’s family.’  
  
Jack does look surprised then, though he tries to hide it. No one ever imagines more of Hannibal than they see here in Baltimore.  
  
‘Let’s get started then,’ Jack says, hands clasped on the table. They are large, dry and cracking like paint at the knuckles. ‘Alana, you were the one to make the call, correct?’  
  
‘Yes. I got here a little after seven. I came to see Will,’’ Alana says clearly, no doubt rehearsed over in her mind for the last while in wait for this conversation. ‘I was going to-‘  
  
‘That doesn’t matter right now,’ Jack dismisses and both Alana and Hannibal are surprised by this, but Alana adjusts as Jack pushes further. ‘I’d just like you to tell me what you saw when you got here.’  
  
‘The doors were open. Winston was missing, too. I went straight to the kitchen first, that’s usually where Hannibal and Will are. When I saw it was empty, I came back through the house. I saw the damage in the study, tried calling Will’s name. Then his phone. When I wasn’t getting through, I tried Hannibal.’  
  
‘And what time did you answer Alana’s call?’ Jack asks, turning to Hannibal.  
  
‘I didn’t. My cell phone is dead,’ Hannibal answers. Jack nods to that, doesn’t comment and turns back to Alana.  
  
‘Did you touch anything?’  
  
‘No, Jack. I’m not a fool. When Hannibal didn’t answer, I called the police. Then I called you,’ Alana replies, starting angry but it slides off her as she continues, a nervousness cutting in. She keeps glancing over to Hannibal, animal instinct and Hannibal concedes with looking back to her.  
  
They are interrupted by an agent Hannibal has never seen before, dressed plain like Jack so not a member of the CSI team. She has pale hair tied back behind her in a tail. She nods to Jack, who opens his hands to motion towards Alana. ‘Alana, this is Agent Maher. She’s going to take a full statement from you. Is that alright?’  
  
Alana looks between both of them, hands flat on the table. One inches closer to Hannibal, all the way until her fingers are off the table entirely and touching him. She gives Hannibal an apologetic look as she gets up and leaves with Agent Maher. Now, Hannibal and Jack sit in a brief silence.  
  
‘If someone took Will, then I want that person put down,’ Jack says with a quiet ferocity. They are alone now; there is no need to pretend for Alana any longer. Hannibal cannot be himself, but Jack unleashes like something uncoiling. His anger leaks and that, strangely, does offer a comfort despite what Hannibal knows to be coming. ‘I want it ironclad. I want it _no way out_ and I want it to put them behind bars until the stars go out, you understand me?’  
  
‘Then it seems we want the same thing,’ Hannibal says, and they share a look. The irony is not lost on them. They have never agreed on Will before now. ‘My husband is not missing, Jack. He has been taken. And I will return him to me.’  
  
‘You seem pretty convinced this is an abduction,’ Jack says and Hannibal feels something inside him seize. An unused muscle, his whole body goes tight with the emotion.  
  
‘Have you found something to suggest otherwise?’  
  
Jack’s eyes are black and bottomless in the low light. ‘No. But if you have information that might help us, then I want it.’  
  
‘Nothing substantial,’ Hannibal admits, and he realises he’s been fidgeting. He’s been touching his wedding ring through his gloves, unknown to himself and he frowns at his fingers. ‘But Will wouldn’t have left unless someone had made him.’  
  
‘You know that, do you?’  
  
Hannibal wants to pierce Jack’s larynx for saying such a thing. It burns bright, the thought, and lingers like an imprint on the retina.  
  
‘Yes,’ Hannibal says resolutely. ‘I do.’  
  
‘We’ll need to take some samples,’ Jack says and Hannibal’s frustrations threaten to boil over. His fingerprints are in no database. Until today. ‘A DNA swab, from your cheek. Fingerprints. We need to rule you out and focus on what shouldn’t be here. Do you understand?’  
  
‘I understand.’  
  
‘Can you think of anyone who would want to harm Will?’  
  
‘Yes. As no doubt you can, also. Will was crucial in a great many of convictions. And there are always those who are convinced of their own justice,’ Hannibal says, remembering evenings spent soothing Will’s nightmares and afternoons waiting in courthouse canteens. It’s strange, to think of those things now. ‘There was hardly a fight you brought him to that didn’t leave a scar.’  
  
Jack’s jaw tightens and Hannibal feels pleased at that. He wants Jack to know. He wants Jack to know that Hannibal blames him.  
  
‘Was there anything recent you can think of that might explain why someone would come to your home to look for him?’ Jack asks and the hallway behind them, the one that circles back to the kitchen illuminates for a moment. The brilliant, white flash of a camera. Jack doesn’t turn to look.  
  
‘Nothing recent. We only had one instance of someone coming to our address. Not long after we married.’  
  
‘Matthew Brown, I remember,’ Jack says and he’s angry again.

Hannibal is angry, too. He had not considered it before this moment, but now that the memory has surfaced, Hannibal can picture Matthew Brown so clearly. A tall, lanky creature that was rescued by his own incarceration. Hannibal realises now that Brown is likely released at this point. Hannibal has been distracted, careless. He has not been following up on his promises.  
  
Hannibal misses Will so keenly then. As though his body has only now registered that Will is indeed gone, even if just for now and Hannibal feels that itch again. The juttering eagerness inside himself to move on, to finish wasting time with Jack Crawford and start working on getting Will back. Nothing is more important now than that.  
  
‘What about outside of work? Any disagreements or people Will didn’t get along with?’  
  
Hannibal just resists a laugh at that. ‘Sociality is not a virtue he has ever been blessed with. But no, Will has not had any issues with someone specific that I know of.’  
  
‘And what does Will do when he’s not at work?’  
  
_For me,_ hangs unsaid in the air. Hannibal is touching his ring again.  
  
‘We spend most of our time together,’ Hannibal says delicately, wondering if Jack is the type to shrink under such connotations but Jack doesn’t say anything, only looks thoughtful.  
  
‘And when you’re not together?’  
  
‘Fly-fishing. He takes the dog,’ Hannibal says and he looks then. He has not kept track of the dog. If it has run off again, or lost, Will will most certainly not be happy with Hannibal’s carelessness. ‘Sometimes I go, bring a picnic for after. Or he goes alone.’  
  
‘Or with Beverly,’ Jack adds and Hannibal pauses, down to his fidgeting fingers. Jack notices. ‘You didn’t know they fish together most Thursdays?’  
  
No, Hannibal did not know. But he doesn’t have to say it, Jack can clearly see.  
  
They are interrupted again, first by Zeller who has walked in with gloved hands holding Will’s phone. Hannibal knows it instantly, having spent so many moments finding it in places it shouldn’t be. Left in the car, on the counter, the sink. Will has been losing it more and more lately. And now here it is again, exactly where it shouldn’t be. Hannibal has the urge to throw the thing against the wall for all the good it’s doing. Jack looks over as Katz enters the room, a large square camera taking up both her hands.  
  
‘Will’s phone?’ Jack asks and Zeller shrugs.  
  
‘Could be the killer’s, there’s a general wallpaper.’  
  
‘It’s Will’s,’ Katz says needlessly for Hannibal, and she still won’t meet his eye. She quite pointedly only looks at Jack. ‘The supervising detective from North-East is outside, Jack. She’s not happy.’

‘Where’s Price?’  
  
‘Price is here,’ Price says himself, walking in from the other door. In his hands, he’s holding a small box that has been wrapped in silver paper. It is not perfect, Hannibal can see the lopsided corners and there is an excess of tape on the sharp triangle folds. But Hannibal knows. He knows. ‘And I come bearing gifts.’  
  
‘How literal,’ Zeller replies, waving the phone. ‘And I was just about to call. Someone’s birthday?’  
  
‘Not sure. There’s no card and I haven’t checked Facebook lately and how else is someone supposed to know?’  
  
‘Good old fashioned friendship?  
  
‘You are neither good nor my friend. One out of three is a bad batting average,’ Price retorts but Hannibal is not paying attention to the inane nattering between them. He is looking at Katz. She is staring at the box like it’s a gun that is about to go off. ‘I found it in the wardrobe. Zero out of ten in choice of hiding place, trust me. They always check the wardrobe first.’  
  
‘What about the ever popular under the bed?’  
  
‘Checked there. Not even a monster to make it worth our while.’  
  
‘Yours?’ Jack asks of Hannibal, and all four of them look at Hannibal then. Hannibal looks at the box, feeling like he’s holding a breath. He shakes his head.  
  
‘No. Will must have bought it.’  
  
‘Happy birthday,’ Price says and Hannibal hates how bright he sounds. How unworried, untroubled he appears to be. They are buzzing around aimlessly and Hannibal is beginning to feel the frustration mount. They are wasting so much time.  
  
‘It’s our anniversary.’  
  
The room changes and Hannibal feels like something has shifted. Four against one. Without Will, Hannibal has no one in his corner.

Katz breaks the silence. ‘Baltimore PD is waiting, boss. And she was pissed when she got here.

‘Let’s not keep her any longer,’ Jack says, still watching Hannibal’s face. ‘Will you organise a DNA swab for Doctor Lecter please and meet us there.’

Katz nods and leaves the room, head down. Zeller and Price are exchanging glances, and between everyone in the room the gift hovers as though suspended. A coin of chaos, waiting for the toss.

‘Alright, Doctor Lecter.’ Jack starts again. ‘Things about to become a lot busier in here. Would you be alright accompanying me to the local station? I’ll need to liaise with their detective team and we have a lot to finish.’

Hannibal nods, because it’s not really a question. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like luminol is used only a quarter as much as you might think because it's surprisingly damaging to other evidence than blood, and probably used like never with the victim/suspect in the house... but... those kind of rules are played fast and loose in the show, so I'm just keeping up the trend... that's my story and I'm sticking with it.


	4. Will Graham: July 5th

**July 5th, 2013.**  
  
****  
****

_It’s 5:54pm. I’m in Baltimore, Maryland. And I’m looking for a killer._  
  
Will is running. He’s running down the street and ahead he can see lights. Blue, red, blue. There are police at Hannibal’s office. A black van, an SUV. Jack is there, too. Will runs faster, runs until his shin splints. He stops at the end of the path, between the two pillars of the garden wall and stares. The door is open, there are stray members of the CSI team making their way in and out.  
  
A man leans against the great, concrete awning of the porch. His jacket stamped in clear, white English. _Coroner._  
  
Jack exits the building and he sees Will immediately. Will hasn’t moved. He’s sweating, he’s out of breath. His hand hurts like a motherfucker and it’s bleeding. Jack looks grim. He approaches and Will wonders what would happen, what would Jack do, if the world were to end right now. In this one, terrible moment. Would Jack still come for him, even now? Would he dig Will up out of the rubble?  
  
‘Prepare yourself,’ Jack says and Will’s trying and failing in a cycle. ‘It’s a mess in there.’  
  
Will doesn’t ask what kind of mess. He’s resigned. He’s sure. He knows.

But when Will walks into Hannibal’s office, there’s a body on the floor and it isn’t Hannibal.  
  
Will crosses the space between the door and Hannibal, and the world hasn’t ended. Hannibal is alive and Will is anchored to the centre of the room. A string compass, Will circles the point of his needle.

Will stands with the desk between, hand bleeding and getting his breath back and Hannibal looks up at him. This is a new angle for them.

‘I was worried you were dead,’ Hannibal says to Will, bruised and bloody from where he is seated. Will hovers, watching Hannibal and waiting for something to change. For the blood to pour, the breath to stop. Hannibal keeps breathing.

‘Tobias Budge killed two Baltimore police officers. Nearly killed an FBI special agent,’ Jack asks, all business, the last part coming out with a tone that suggests Jack finds it almost offensive that Budge attempted to tackle any facility of the FBI. ‘And after all of that. His first stop is here. Your office.’

‘He came to kill my patient,’ Hannibal explains, voice a little slurred. Will feels an urge to tell him to be quiet. He sees violin wire sewing Hannibal’s lips shut. ‘But the patient had already left.’  
  
‘The patient who warned you about Budge, that you told Will about?’  
  
‘Yes, the same,’ Hannibal continues and he looks smaller in his chair. Will wonders why it makes such a difference. ‘When I realised who he was, I tried to ask him to leave. He wouldn’t. I think in losing his chance to kill my patient, he adopted me as a surrogate.’

‘And you killed him,’ Jack clarifies. Will looks at the body of Tobias Budge, shrouded in black plastic. The noise of everything is dimming, Will feeling as though things are bleeding between lines. Like a song, something is resonating. Hannibal must nod, as he doesn’t speak again.

When Will looks back, Jack is watching him though he speaks to Hannibal. ‘Where is this patient now? Can we get a name?’  
  
‘Yes, yes. Of course,’ Hannibal replies and Will comes back, song fading. ‘Franklyn Froideveux. I have his contact details.’

When they’re alone, Will settles against the desk.

‘I feel like I’ve dragged you into my world,’ Will says and it’s not just Budge, not just the violence. It’s the room, it’s the space and it’s the way Will feels like some part of himself has been stormed. Will has turned this room into his own and now it is flooded.

‘I got here on my own.’

‘Don’t.’

_Don’t protect me. Don’t lie for me._

‘At least we have good company,’ Hannibal says instead of anything else and it catches Will off-guard; the humour there. They look at each other and Will wants to say something more. He wants to apologise, but doesn’t know how.  
  
‘I…’ Will starts, then stops and Hannibal is watching him. Hannibal is always watching and Will has come to consider it a net. It catches him now. ‘I thought you were dead, too.’  
  
Hannibal frowns, confused. Will nods towards the movements behind them as the coroners finally move Budge’s body to a carrier.  
  
‘Just for a moment,’ Will explains, edging closer along the desk. His leg touches Hannibal’s knee and they make a corner, with just themselves. ‘After he attacked me I knew he’d come here. I ran.’  
  
‘You’re hurt,’ Hannibal says, a little clearer this time. He reaches out with the hand that’s not currently holding gauze to his leg. Will instinctively shrinks back, but doesn’t stop Hannibal from taking his hand. Hannibal takes a sharp breath. ‘He hurt you.’  
  
‘I should’ve been here,’ Will says, hissing when Hannibal’s grip tightens. It pulls on the shorn skin where the wire bit him but Will doesn’t pull away. The scabs tear and new blood pearls. ‘I should’ve stopped him, I knew it was him the second I saw him.’  
  
Hannibal, as always, knows exactly what Will means. ‘Then you would be a killer.’  
  
Hobbs whispers in Will’s ear, his hands in Will’s hair and dropping grave dirt on his shoulders.  
  
‘I’m already a killer.’  
  
‘So am I,’ Hannibal says and Will opens his mouth, ready to defend him but Hannibal squeezes his hand. It hurts and Will is distracted. ‘And I was one this morning, too.’  
  
Will seizes, but when Hannibal looks at him, Will remembers. A patient died, Hannibal had said. Will can see it, can feel the tight latex gloves and smell the antiseptic. Can feel Hannibal’s quiet frustration, his veneer cracking in the face of the failure to achieve the perfect application. Hannibal had probably not even doubted, never even considered anything other than succeeding.

The steady surgeon. All for naught. Undone by dumb luck and the human body being what it is.  
  
‘Not like this,’ Will finally says, shaking his head. He turns his palm and holds Hannibal’s hand in earnest. Hannibal goes very, very still. Will knows he’s just crossed a firm boundary but he does not retreat.  
  
‘There is only like this,’ Hannibal says to that and Will wants to ask more, wants to know what Hannibal means but it’s on the tip of Will’s tongue, and asking would spoil the answer. Will grins, suddenly giddy. He doesn't know why. None of this is funny.  
  
‘Do you need a doctor?’ he asks, wiping at his face like he might wipe the smile off. Hannibal is not smiling, but that makes sense. Hannibal is the most sane person Will knows.  
  
‘Do you?’  
  
‘No. I want to get you home.’  
  
It is not what Will had meant to say but it is nonetheless true. Will tightens his fingers, feels Hannibal’s hand in his own. Hannibal’s fingers are cold. Will wants to put Hannibal in his home and stay outside in the dark. He wants Hannibal to turn on all the lights and for Will to walk through the grass of the garden, stepping around yellow squares where it shines through.  
  
Hannibal does smile now. His lip is bleeding.  
  
‘And what will you do then?’ He licks the blood. ‘Guard my little house.’  
  
He knows. Hannibal always knows. Will looks at their hands, conjoined. ‘Your house isn’t little. Not even your shed is little.’  
  
‘Space enough for two,’ Hannibal says and Will wonders, just for a moment, if he’ll decline the invitation.  
  
He doesn’t

 

* * *

 

Will is alone in Hannibal’s kitchen while Hannibal goes to change upstairs.  
  
His hand is wrapped in fresh gauze, bandaged by Hannibal before anything else. Will had protested, but Hannibal ignored him. Now, Will flexes his left hand and feels where it is restricted by the tape. Will wouldn’t let Hannibal bandage both. When Hannibal joins him again, he is dressed in a crisp white shirt and slacks. Somehow, it is still the most unmade Will has ever seen him.  
  
‘Would you like me to cook for you?’ Hannibal says from the doorway, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His arm is also bandaged and Will wonders why he didn’t ask Will for help with it. Hannibal’s hair is damp and won’t stay where he combed it. It’s like Hannibal but misremembered- someone has forgotten certain parts of him.  
  
‘No, no,’ Will says and he still has his jacket on. He shrugs it off now, considers where to leave it before finally walking over to the chair in the corner and leaving it there. ‘I don’t want you to do anything.’

‘Don’t you?’ Hannibal asks and his words are slow again, accent thick like a dough between his hands and it sticks to Will’s fingers. He looks at them instead of Hannibal, the pink of his knuckles. ‘A coffee then, perhaps.

He’s so close now Will can smell Hannibal’s soap. Will has no palate for anything- it just smells masculine to him. And familiar from smelling it a hundred times before without realising.

'Do you like pancakes?’ Will asks and Hannibal is doing that thing he seems to do when Will catches him off guard. It’s… nothing. Nothing because Hannibal always knows how to look, what to say and then Will does something like this and Hannibal is never ready. Will’s chest goes tight like a rope. ‘I can make pancakes.’  
  
‘Are you hungry?’  
  
‘No,’ Will confesses, turning to face the kitchen. He and Hannibal are always shoulder to shoulder. ‘I just like to see your kitchen in use.’  
  
‘It’s comforting to see things as they should be,’ Hannibal offers and Will steps away, puts distance between them as Will approaches the countertop island again. He touches the steel top of it, leaves fingerprints behind.  
  
‘And are you as you should be?’ Will asks, his reflection bruise-mottled in the steel. ‘You killed someone today.’  
  
‘Are you asking me if I am changed, or are you more concerned with knowing that I am just how you left me?’  
  
Will looks up, cautious. ‘How have I left you, Doctor Lecter?’  
  
Hannibal walks up to him, his mouth a fine line and Will is drawn to it, following it to the corner where it splits. A dark red hook, curled into Hannibal’s mouth so Will can’t see the end of it. Will wonders what Hannibal sounds like when he laughs. Will has never heard Hannibal laugh before.  
  
‘What do you sound like?’ Will asks, shaking his head because he feels drunk suddenly. Loose limbed, gangling. Something holding him up has snapped. ‘When you’re not yourself?’  
  
‘I am always myself,’ Hannibal answers and Will thinks he would believe it any other day but today.  
  
‘Not always,’ Will says, hands starting to shake. ‘But it’s okay. I’m not myself either.’  
  
Hannibal’s eyes are the colour of knobbled wood, earth toned and Will holds onto the counter for balance. Hannibal is looking, assessing and Will wonders what Hannibal is thinking. Sometimes, Hannibal moves and Will knows exactly what he is going to. Now, Will feels like he’s missed a step in the dark. He knows he can’t fall far, but still- he falls.  
  
‘You are never still,’ Hannibal says gently, softer than he has before and Will’s shoulders drop as he sinks into Hannibal’s voice. ‘You are never yourself and therefore you assume you must be someone else. It pulls you in so many directions it’s a wonder your skin can hold you together. Even now, you breathe like it is a race to some finish line too far to see.’  
  
‘And you never move,’ Will counters, bold or stupid- he hasn’t decided yet.

He’s a fury inside with a body too exhausted to hold it up. Adrenaline, and anger, and guilt. It burns behind his teeth, rattles them from the inside out and Will thinks of the stag Hannibal used to kill Budge. Hears the steps of a creature he knows isn’t there.

‘I wonder sometimes what it would take to move you,’ Will thinks aloud and Hannibal shifts. It’s like Hannibal settles all of sudden. Sand gone stone.  
  
‘What it would take at all, or what it would take for you?’  
  
Will reaches out, touches Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal is warm, he’s solid and still Will thinks the air is too thick in his lungs to be real. Will has slipped somewhere, unnoticed, behind the curtain and perhaps he’s still asleep, antlers racking against the headboard. He thinks he feels Hannibal’s heartbeat, but it’s so faint it’s hard to tell if it’s just the blood pulsing in his own hand.

‘Be careful, Will,’ Hannibal says gently, coaxing Will down from something.

‘I don’t feel like I could be, even if I wanted to.’  
  
‘You kissed Alana yesterday,’ Hannibal says and Will almost laughs, because that would seem unrelated to anyone else and because: yes, he did. But this is not that and Hannibal is not Alana. Will pushes his hand. Hannibal does not move. ‘You crave stability. You said so yourself.’  
  
‘You’re not an anchor.’  
  
‘I am supposed to be. Who else will stop you from being swallowed by the storm?’  
  
‘I’m my own storm,’ Will confesses, pushing harder and still Hannibal does not move. ‘Everything has a place for you. The statue of the stag was moved, from one side of the room to the other. Why?’  
  
‘I saw you watching it behind my shoulder during our sessions. I was curious,’ Hannibal answers and he’s moving, but not away. Not pushed by Will. He raises his bandaged arm, left hand covering Will’s on his chest. ‘You follow it like it moves.’  
  
Will nods because he doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.

‘Are you watching something now, Will?’

Will is only looking at his hand. At Hannibal’s own covering it. A dam has broken and Will has spilled water all over Hannibal’s lines.

‘What would you do-‘ Will stops himself, suddenly unsure because there’s something dark in Hannibal’s eye. Something moving through the trees, from one side to the other. ‘What would you do if he had killed me?’

‘I thought he had,’ Hannibal says darkly, accent so strong and Will is not in this kitchen and he is not who he is and Hannibal is exactly who he is supposed to be. ‘And I killed him.’

‘Tell me about the other one,’ Will says, desperate and unashamed of it. ‘The other man you killed.’

Something flickers over Hannibal’s face. It’s a ripple in the still surface, the swell of something hungry beneath oil slick water. And Will can see straight through it, distorted reflection. Showing the negative so Will can see the positive.

‘It wasn’t a patient.’

Hannibal’s hand tightens on Will’s, holding Will to his chest.

‘I have killed a patient,’ Hannibal replies carefully and Will feels the urge to tilt his head, bend his back so he might look around Hannibal’s corners and see where Hannibal hides.

‘Yes, but you don’t think that. You’re a doctor, you lost people. That’s not who you meant before.’

‘It does not matter now. It was like not Tobias.’

‘I don’t care. I want to know.’

‘Will it hurt you?’

Will stops. ‘Does that matter?’

Hannibal looks he’s considering that very thing himself. He seems to be thinking about his words before he speaks and that more than anything is tugging on Will’s mouth, almost a smile because Hannibal always thinks before he speaks but never has it been so much work. Will wants to be hard work he realises suddenly, and the thought is bubbling.

‘I am a doctor,’ Hannibal says at last and then Will does laugh because- wow. ‘There is an oath for such a thing.’

‘You’re my friend,’ Will says to that, finding Hannibal’s brief flicker of confusion even funnier. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘You have never asked.’

‘You need to be asked?’ Will says, curious. ‘I’m yours. If you’d have me, that is.’

‘I would. Have you.’’

‘Implying you’re not mine.’

‘I would never assume,’ Hannibal says and Will’s laugher goes out like a candle.

‘Will you give me something if I ask for it?’

‘What do you ask for?’

‘Tell me,’ Will asks again. Will spreads his fingers under Hannibal’s, tries to grab at Hannibal’s shirt. Will feels he’s unhitched from something and floating away. ‘Tell me about your first murder.’

‘Would you still be mine after?’ Hannibal asks, sounding interested like this were any thing to ask someone.

‘Where else would I go?’

‘You might run.’

‘You didn’t run from me,’ Will points out and he’s getting desperate again, he can feel it. Can’t stop it though. He’d scrape at Hannibal’s chest if he could like pulling bark. ‘I’m not sorry I killed Hobbs. I probably never will be, if it hasn’t come yet.’

‘You think I’m sorry for mine?’ Hannibal replies and Will shakes his head. His other hand is still poised behind him, gripping the edge of the counter and Hannibal could push Will right over it if he wanted to. The thought makes Will dizzy.

‘I know you’re not. That’s why I wanted to say it.’

‘I did not murder him,’ Hannibal says suddenly and Will blinks open, holds his breath. Something very important is happening now and after this Will can’t undo it. ‘The first. I hunted him. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

Will does and doesn’t. He settles for no answer.

‘Have you heard of Čepkeliai?’

Will shakes his head.

‘There is a swamp there,’ Hannibal says and though he is looking at Will, he is not here with him. Hannibal has shuttered, retreated back somewhere different. ‘When the spring is new, mist forms along the water there. The whole place smells like life. And decay. Moss eating and water running and people drowning.’

So far away, Will thinks. They are so far away from each other in this moment.

‘The dissidents would hide throughout the wood, chased there by the Soviets. Oppressed on one side of the trees and oppressors on the other,’ Hannibal continues and he sounds so calm, so placid like the marsh without a current. ‘In the swamp, paths were lost to the mist. The soft earth would swallow anyone that stepped there wrong.’

Will sees it. He sees it so vividly. He walks silent and careful behind the Hannibal of this place, who is tall but thin and would speak nothing Will could understand. They walk together through the mist, listening for the roar of violence that threatens to spill over any moment.

‘I had followed them for weeks,’ Hannibal says to him in this place. Will watches as the child Hannibal was crawls deep into needle-like grass, stalking predators bigger. ‘When I had my chance, I only killed one of them.’

Will waits and Hannibal rewards him. Hannibal blinks and returns to himself, filling out his edges and Will is watching the boy grow up. He stands broad and strong, victorious over what that man whoever he had been had done. Will thinks he knows what was done.

‘I buried a knife in his skull,’ Hannibal admits to Will, eyes a fire. They split with red heat. ‘He twitched, gagged. He fought me. When I wrenched the knife out he bled like a fountain. I fell into the water and took him with me. I saved myself but the body was lost.’

Will feels it so strong- the frustration. The true despairing heartbreak of losing what Hannibal had fought for so long to get.

‘You cried,’ Will realises aloud and for the time, he thinks Hannibal might step away. Hannibal is visibly affected by that and Will worries for a moment. But then Hannibal squeezes his hand, reassuring.

‘You see everything,’ he says and he sounds impressed. Will leans forward slightly, wanting to be closer.

‘Did it bring them back?’

Hannibal’s humour dies. ‘Bring whom back?’

‘Who that man took from you. Did killing him bring them back?’

Hannibal doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even move. Will presses closer again. He wants to press until something breaks because it’s what Hannibal does and Will wants to be Hannibal, for just this moment. Because Hannibal would control this situation and Will feels this situation needs control and he is unequipped.

‘No,’ Hannibal says solemnly and Will feels grief for someone he never knew.

Will closes his eyes, leans forward and kisses him.  
  
Hannibal freezes but for his hand on Will’s, which comes together like a bear trap. He pins Will there, to his chest and Will feels his lips part in a silent exhale. Will reminds himself of the canisters his father used to keep in the back of the truck. He swirls with viscous gasoline, ready for a spark.  
  
When Will tries to pull away, Hannibal is too quick. His other hand comes to the nape of Will’s neck and holds him steady and when Hannibal kisses him, it is nothing Will expected and everything he needs. Will opens his lips, makes a pathetic noise in the back of his throat as Hannibal’s tongue touches his. Hannibal is slow, he’s shivering and Will is feeling it against him like a wave. Will wraps his other arm around Hannibal’s waist and pulls.  
  
Hannibal steps forward, crowds Will against the island and with the solidity behind him, Will is trapped by the hard lines of Hannibal’s body. They are pressed together and hot. Hannibal is not furnace but sunshine, radiating and the pillar of Will’s orbit.

Hannibal’s large hand holds Will’s neck, off-kilter to how he had held Abigail’s but Will still feels that Hannibal is holding him together in this moment. There is a tight, thorny spike of lust in his stomach and it’s so alien, so good, it crumples Will at the waist as he instinctively tries to curl in on it.  
  
Hannibal’s other hand moves into Will’s hair, grips there and holds him up and the kiss goes heavy because Will worries Hannibal is going to stop and he surges forward. Will gets Hannibal’s bottom lip between his teeth, sucks on it and feels the way Hannibal’s stomach tucks in from the breath he holds. Will’s jeans are going tight, his heart is racing and if he’s a storm then thunder has roared inside him.  
  
Then Hannibal stops and it’s like tasting when it’s going to snow in the back his throat.

Hannibal let’s go of where he’s still holding Will’s hand to his chest. Instead, he takes Will’s face like a chalice. Two hands, palm up and divine. Will opens his eyes, feels like his lungs won’t fill, he and Hannibal are so close. They breathe each other’s air, Hannibal’s hands so large he hides Will from the world.  
  
Will tastes blood and sees that Hannibal’s mouth is watercolour from where his split lip has opened, a smooth gloss from where the blood slips. Will takes his hand from Hannibal’s chest, touches two fingers to his lips. Brushes them slow, one finger on the bow and the other on the plump of Hannibal’s bottom lip. But they come away clean. No blood.

‘How long have you wanted to do that?’ Will asks, his hand lingering still in the air between them. Not touching.

‘How long have you?’

‘From the moment I did it,’ Will admits. ‘What is this?’

Hannibal is watching Will so closely. ‘A bad idea.’

‘I know. I don’t give much of a shit though.’

‘I have a duty of care,’ Hannibal says to that and Will scoffs, his cheeks bunching beneath Hannibal’s thumbs.

‘Do you really think that or do you just know that?’ Will asks, sounding desperate because he is. He just stops himself from saying _please._ ‘I need it to be…’

‘What do you need it to be?’ Hannibal asks, coming close again and Will hopes he might kiss him again. Hannibal doesn’t.

Will shakes his head best he can. ‘I already have what I need. You’re here. Alive.’

‘Then what do you want?’

‘What do you want?’

‘Is that not clear?’ Hannibal asks and if this were anyone else- if this were someone else’s kitchen and Hannibal were someone else, and Will a person who lives a different life, that question would’ve been a confession.

But it is not and they are not. Hannibal asks Will this the same way he asks him anything. Will feels it; sudden and hot like a bullet through him.

They’ve done something to each other. It moves in their skin. Splits their bone and Will can picture them so clearly in his mind, unthreaded like a blanket at the sinew, muscles and veins. They knot together and perhaps it is just now, perhaps earlier. But Hannibal asks like he asks and Will answers because that is who they are.

‘I want to stay,’ Will says, hand finally moving. He holds Hannibal’s cheek, the square plane of it. ‘I will stay.’

‘You will,’ Hannibal says and Will snaps.

‘I can’t.’

Will breaks away, breaks down. He’s crashing in on himself as the realisation of what he’s just done comes upon like a blow. He steps away from Hannibal, leaves Hannibal’s hands lingering on air.

‘I shouldn’t have done that,’ Will says and he laughs at himself because this is a whole new kind of stupid for him. Stupid violence, stupid crazy- that he knows. This is something with the potential to do a particular kind of damage.

‘Asked me about my first murder or kissed me?’

‘Kissed you,’ Will says because it’s safer than admitting that he only wanted to the moment Hannibal confessed to the former. ‘It was- I don’t know. Not good.’

Hannibal just watches as Will from the counter. Will turns on his feet, unsure where to run because he doesn’t want to. He waves a hand weakly between them.

‘You’re in shock,’ Will says hurriedly, the words tripping over themselves. ‘You could be reliving the trauma of- Christ. And I kissed you. I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you.’

‘Do you think yourself capable of that?’

‘I think it’s one of the few things I can take from you to begin with,’ Will says with false mirth. He rubs at his face. The bandage on his hand scrapes against the prickle of his stubble. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Do not apologise. I am not sorry you did it.’

‘You should be,’ Will says, meeting Hannibal’s eye. ‘You should be angry.’

‘I’m not,’ Hannibal says and Will knows that but still. ‘You saw something monstrous in me and wanted to be closer. I will not be sorry for that.’

‘You were a child, not a killer.’

‘I am a killer now.’

‘You’re my friend,’ Will says again and Hannibal blinks, thrown once more by something Will has said. ‘You killed Budge. But killing is not murder.’

‘What is then?’ Hannibal asks, amusement disguised with curiosity. ‘Did you murder Hobbs?’

 _See?_ rattles in Will’s head and he shakes it, trying to shake the words out. He goes for deflection. ‘I can’t kiss you. I can’t kiss the people around me just because I…’

Hannibal shifts his weight, looks like he might come closer but then doesn’t. ‘Because you what?’

‘I didn’t kiss you the way I kissed Alana,’ Will admits because Hannibal deserves to know. ‘You’re not a clutch for stability.’

‘What am I then?’

‘What I wanted in that moment,’ Will says and Hannibal is moving. Crowding up against Will again and they always split apart to come together. ‘You hunted that man through the mist. You wanted to chew him between your teeth. I can feel it. I felt it. And when I felt it I wanted to know what you tasted like.’

Hannibal reaches out and touches Will’s hair. ‘What do I taste like?’

‘I don’t know,’ Will says and he touches Hannibal’s lips. Holds his fingers there. ‘Do something for me.’

Hannibal purses his lips in a bare kiss to Will’s fingers and his eyes say _anything._

‘Don’t kiss anyone else,’ Will pleads. ‘Don’t give anything away.’

‘Until you decide if you want for yourself?’ Hannibal asks and Will almost flinches.

‘Yes. I know it’s bad. But-’

‘I’ll do it,’ Hannibal promises but Will doesn’t see him move until it’s too late. Hannibal’s hand shoots up and grabs Will by the wrist. ‘But you must do the same.’

‘You’ve already decided.’

‘Then until you decide you want me, don’t want anyone else,’ Hannibal offers and he turns Will’s wrist. Places a kiss to the vein that runs there. Will wants to turn his hand and touch Hannibal’s face but he doesn’t. ‘Will you stay?’

‘I can’t. I shouldn’t.’

‘But you will. I have a spare bed.’

‘No,’ Will says and he touches Hannibal’s throat. ‘I want to sleep with you. I just- I want to know you’re near.’

Hannibal doesn’t speak again but Will still understands. Hannibal steps away and towards the door, holding his hand out. Will reaches back, takes hold of Hannibal like a rope and pulls himself to shore.

It’s a bad idea. And Will’s going to make the mistake twice. 


	5. Hannibal Lecter: The Night Of

**The Night Of**

 

The supervising detective is going to sit in on the interview.  
  
Jack takes the lead when they arrive at the precinct; it's not even a question when they arrive, the detective of inferior age and aggression. Her role is hard-won, but not through the kind of fight Jack always gives. The North-East precinct is quieter, used to less obstructive crime and it shows in the way the detective defers to Jack almost instantly. But still, Hannibal knows the detective as an acquaintance. Has met her on more than one occasion at various events. She and Will always spoke more than she and Hannibal, however.  
  
They are friendly and Hannibal can see the way Jack bristles at the detective's immediate comment to Hannibal of; ‘We’ll figure this out, Hannibal. Don’t you worry at all. Want me to call Vincent?’  
  
Vincent Porter, Hannibal’s solicitor. Jack visibly bigs himself up, takes a breath to puff out his broad chest but he needn’t worry. Hannibal is no fool. He knows how this looks, knows the implication in calling a solicitor too early. The situation requires a delicate hand. It is difficult- Hannibal looks at the caged clock on the wall that says it’s closer to eleven than not and Hannibal is conscious of the time. In his mind, he can see long stretches of road and the boats on the river. They’ve wasted so much time.  
  
After the interview, Katz will take Hannibal’s DNA and fingerprints. Then it’ll be time to truly start this.  
  
The interview room is not as small as Hannibal would’ve thought, cleaner too. Hannibal sits on the inside of the table, the detective across from him. Jack stands, taking something from his pocket. Jack replaces his own recorder to the table and the detective pauses in where she is adjusting the settings of the police department’s equipment. She says nothing though, simply retreating as Jack starts, pacing slowly along the length of the two-way mirror.  
  
‘Can you state your name for the record?’ Jack says and Hannibal changes his demeanour. The nervous energy is genuine, Hannibalis eager to move on and finish this himself, so he uses it to give the right impression. He leans forward, resting his chin on clasped hands in a picture of worry.  
  
‘Hannibal Lecter,’ he answers, deliberately keeping his eyes on the clock this room also has. ‘Has there been any progress? It’s been some time.’  
  
‘We’re doing everything we can,’ Jack replies dutifully. ‘You’ll be the first to know when we learn something.’  
  
Hannibal sincerely doubts that.  
  
‘Can you tell me about your day?’ Jack asks, eyes on his shoes. ‘Did you see Will this morning? How was he?’  
  
‘Will woke me up at approximately seven,’ Hannibal answers selectively. The recorder is blinking red in a steady beat, like a heart. ‘He made breakfast. Today is our anniversary.’  
  
‘Congratulations!’ the detective says brightly.  
  
‘Thank you.’  
  
‘How long are you guys married now though? I don’t know if I remember you without the other, to be honest.’  
  
‘Five years,’ Hannibal answers and Jack isn’t walking anymore. He’s leaning against the far wall, eyes straight ahead.  
  
‘Did you have any plans?’ the detective asks encouragingly, her smile genuinely eager. ‘Knowing you, I’d guess you had the best place in town booked for tonight.’  
  
‘Will prefers my cooking,’ Hannibal says truthfully, though it is not all flattery. Will prefers to stay in the quiet of their home when he can, especially in the last few months.  
  
Earlier in their marriage, he had been more adventurous. Dinners, opera and balls- it had become a game to them, an exchange of priority across the social landscape. Will would be a mirage of colourful personality, bleeding different parts of himself to fine pastel or vibrant bursts and rolling in time to Hannibal’s measured steps. The Will of now is not like this. He is brittle in places, no matter how desperately Hannibal tries to soothe it.  
  
‘Just the two of you?’ Jack confirms needlessly. Hannibal doesn’t even answer that.  
  
‘That’s sweet,’ the detective says kindly. She is placating, sitting comfortably and less threatening. She has deferred to Jack out of design; out of strategic sidestep of responsibility. She does not want to think ill of her friend. ‘Can’t beat a home cooked meal, to be sure.’  
  
‘He hasn’t been particularly well lately. We planned to stay in.’  
  
‘What kind of unwell? Got a cold, the flu?’ Jack asks, interested.  
  
‘I suspect encephalitis,’ Hannibal answers plainly and both Jack and the detective are surprised, eyes widening.  
  
‘That’s quite the diagnosis,’ Jack says just as the detective says; ‘That sounds serious.’  
  
‘I cannot confirm,’ Hannibal admits and something burns hot in the back of his throat, a frustration with himself unusually felt. ‘I could not force him to seek medical care outside of myself. He dismisses me often, but I am sure.’  
  
Jack crosses his arms. ‘What makes you sure?’  
  
‘The scent,’ Hannibal says, words to his interlocked fingers, like prayer. ‘I once correctly diagnosed a previous lecturer of mine with pancreatic cancer before his oncologist. Will has been feverish, losing time and some mild sensory hallucinations. That combined with a sweet smell of fever has me convinced.’  
  
‘But you didn’t take him to a doctor?’ Jack asks, sounding dubious. Hannibal’s hands tighten and a knuckle pops quietly.  
  
‘I am a doctor,’ Hannibal replies firmly, meeting Jack’s eye over his hands. ‘I do my best, but Will is a resolute force. The symptoms at present are not life-threatening. I was waiting for the right moment, hoping Will would realise himself how unwell he is. In the meantime, I provide the best support I can.’  
  
'You don't consider any of those things to be life-threatening?' Jack says, disbelieving. 'Or at the very least worrying?'  
  
'They are worrying. As I said, I help where he lets me. I've taken to driving him to Quantico most mornings.'  
  
Jack visibly stiffens at this, but Hannibal is distracted by the other before looking too closely.  
  
‘Men are stubborn,’ the detective says, nodding sagely. Too understanding suddenly, and Hannibal realises he may not have the ally he thought. ‘Lord knows I can’t get my husband to even pop an aspirin, never mind get him to the doctor.’  
  
‘You know how restrictive a spouse can be,’ Hannibal says, ignoring her and addressing Jack directly. They are watching each other closely, just shy of teeth bared. ‘When it comes to their health. How possessive they are of their own fate.’  
  
It is a low blow. Hannibal can acknowledge that, but it works as Jack shudders through his shoulders down to his fists. Bella Crawford died less than six months ago. Hannibal and Will attended the funeral together. It was the last time Hannibal had seen Jack in person before now. Hannibal sent flowers to the house. Will said that it had been cruel.  
  
‘You’re ten years older than Will, right?’ Jack asks and the question is a deliberate throw in a new direction. The detective is looking curious, surprised again and Hannibal is conscious of it. Jack is resorting to jabs of his own.  
  
‘Twelve,’ Hannibal answers and the detective blinks. Jack doesn’t.  
  
‘And how did you meet?’  
  
Hannibal frowns at Jack’s vulgarity. ‘Will was assigned to me originally by his senior manager at the FBI after a trauma in the field. I was to give a psychological evaluation based on his capacity to return to work.’  
  
‘So he was your patient?’ Jack prompts and the detective is listening carefully, her demeanour changing. Hannibal lowers his hands, does not bother to hide how displeased he is with Jack’s behaviour.  
  
‘He was never officially my patient.’  
  
‘But you were treating him as one, right?’ Jack offers lightly and Hannibal grits his teeth. ‘You had a standing appointment, I believe. Would you say that while not official, it would be right in considering your and Will’s relationship at the time to be that of doctor and patient?’  
  
‘Jack,’ Hannibal warns and it is warning. Jack straightens immediately, hearing the bite in Hannibal’s tone. ‘Is this necessary?’  
  
‘You want to find the person that did this, we gotta rule you out first,’ Jack says unkindly, all pretence dropped now it seems. ‘Statistics aren’t in your favour, Doctor Lecter. I don’t want some shark lawyer coming at me saying I didn’t follow due process and letting someone go that shouldn’t be out because they have cause to point the finger somewhere else.’  
  
‘I did not hurt Will,’ Hannibal says because he feels the urge to say it. The detective reaches across the table, touches Hannibal’s wrist that’s closest to her and he looks down at it, seeing but not quite feeling it.  
  
‘No one is saying that. We’d never think it either,’ she says gently, placating and Hannibal’s skin crawls with repulsion for it. ‘But we have to tick all our boxes here, Hannibal. I know it’s scary.’  
  
Hannibal is older, stronger and far more intelligent than her. And yet, he has to sit and listen to this. Hannibal looks away, closes his eyes and wonders if it comes across as trying to stop tears. The detective is patting him, mirroring Alana from earlier without any of the grace. Hannibal hears Jack’s shoes on the floor again- he has resumed pacing. Hannibal looks up, silently fuming.  
  
‘So you got up at seven. What next?’  
  
‘I left at eight, or thereabouts. I went to town first, to pick up some flowers.’ The detective smiles encouragingly and Hannibal ignores her. ‘Completed some other errands. I then arrived at my practice shortly after two.’  
  
‘In the afternoon?’ Jack questions, hands in his pockets as he paces. 'What were you doing all morning?'  
  
'I went to the florist. The bank,' Hannibal lists, knowing he does not have the time to narrow the specifics. 'I considered some shopping for this evening, attended the local market but ultimately decided to use what we had already at home.'  
  
'You spent all that time at the market?'

'I take pleasure in it.'

'Were you with anyone? Can you think of anyone who can confirm what time you arrived in these places?'  
  
'I was alone.'  
  
Hannibal knows that the bank CCTV will show him too early and the market, that he did not go to today, does not even have such a thing. The best he can do is go tomorrow morning before Jack organises someone else to call, plant the seeds in some vendors that they may have seen him there this morning and hope whomever Jack sends lacks Will's keen eye. 

Hannibal knows his alibi is impossible to give. Which means that whoever took Will must either be incredibly lucky, or knows more than Hannibal would've thought possible. And Hannibal is not one to believe in luck. 

If someone had known Hannibal would be occupied, would be distracted with the extracurricular activities of his life outside marriage and home this morning, then they would’ve known he would find himself here. Certain of his innocence, and completely impossible for him to state it. Hannibal needs time to spin the plates and he will distract until everything stops threatening to fall to the floor.  
  
'But I am certain the florist shall remember,' Hannibal says as it is one thing he can say with confidence. Jack nods once, eyes sharp on Hannibal's face.  
  
'Did you speak to Will at all today, asides from breakfast?'  
  
Hannibal does not wish to answer this, but he does. 'No. Not since this morning.'  
  
'Not even to wish him a happy anniversary?' Jack asks, lips pursed in a blatantly judgemental look. 'You were always an odd couple.'  
  
Will would've found that funny, if he were here. But he isn't and the jokes falls flat.   
  
'So you got Will flowers?' the detective suggests and Hannibal doesn't answer that because there would be no point. Jack states the obvious.  
  
'You didn't bring any flowers with you,' Jack says and the detective deflates instantly. 'Not for Will then, I take it?'  
  
'He is not one for flowers. They were for my office,' Hannibal says and anyone who knows Will like Hannibal does would know that to be untrue, in a sense. Jack shrugs his shoulders.   
  
'So what did you get him then? For an anniversary gift?'  
  
Hannibal couldn't explain to Jack. It's impossible for someone other than he or Will to understand. But he offers; 'We do not exchange gifts, in the traditional sense.'  
  
'He got you one,' Jack points out and Hannibal's hands tighten again. Jack is clumsy in his insinuations but Jack has never had to be delicate for anything. That was what Will was for, when he was Jack's. Jack looks at the detective, talking to her as if Hannibal were not there; 'It's sweet, actually. Wrapped up and hidden in the wardrobe.'  
  
'He wanted to surprise you!' the detective says to Hannibal, too sweetly to be genuine. 'That's cute. Wish my husband would surprise me more often.'  
  
'Any idea what he got you?' Jack asks and Hannibal shakes his head.   
  
'I'd like to have it,' Hannibal says truthfully, giving a slight pleading tone that has the detective look sympathetically in Jack's direction. Jack raises an empty hand.  
  
'It's evidence at this time, I'm afraid. Maybe tomorrow.'  
  
Hannibal will give Jack until then. After that, he will take what Will has left him by force if necessary.   
  
'So, you were off doing the odd jobs today?' the detective says, starting off again. Hannibal nods to her, puts fretting breath to his words.  
  
‘Most of those things have been left to me in the last few weeks.’  
  
‘Mine’s the same. Wouldn’t even know where to start if I asked him to pick something up,’ the detective says of her husband in faux camaraderie. She is like a gnat, buzzing in their ears and it’s clear that Hannibal is not the only one wishes to be rid of her.  
  
‘When you finished work, you walked home. Why is that?’ Jack asks.  
  
‘I had trouble with the car. The battery, I believe,’ Hannibal lies for the second time that evening. Jack fidgets, lips pressed.  
  
‘No taxi?’  
  
‘I wanted the time to myself.’  
  
‘On your anniversary?’ Jack says, eyebrows raised and Hannibal delicately backtracks, appeals to Jack’s softer nature that has always been a weakness.  
  
‘I’m sure you understand what I mean when I say that I worry about bringing my work home with me,’ Hannibal says softly, leaning into the perception of shame he imagines Jack might feel. Like they are together in this unique suffering. ‘I prefer some time to myself to shed the concerns of other people before arriving home. Will is so perceptive. I don’t want to burden him.’  
  
‘Did you call Will to let him know you would be late?’  
  
Hannibal considers his options, before electing for the truth. ‘No. It was late and given how Will was feeling, I suspected he may have retired early. I did not want to disturb him.’  
  
‘You don’t think he would’ve been worried? An hour is a long time to wait.’  
  
‘Will does not worry for me,’ Hannibal says fondly, touching his wedding ring. ‘I never give him cause.’  
  
‘But you worry about him, right?’ Jack says and the moment is broken, the ring offering no comfort and Hannibal waits for Jack to make the next move. ‘You worry about him a lot.’  
  
Jack doesn’t sit down, but he puts his hands on the back of the other chair next to the detective. He leans forward, towering over the table and Hannibal has seen this look on Jack before. He did not scare Hannibal then and he does not now. Hannibal lowers his hands to the table, watches Jack hardly back and tries to think of what Will might say. Over five years later, and still, Hannibal cannot hope to predict for sure.  
  
‘Isn’t it true that your worry for him is what made him resign from his position of profiler with the behavioural science unit at the FBI?’  
  
‘I did not make him. Will makes his own choices,’ Hannibal says but Jack cuts him off.  
  
‘It was your firm suggestion. I remember,’ Jack says and the detective leans away herself, seemingly afraid to get too close to the conversation that bubbles hot between Hannibal and Jack at this moment. ‘You came to me without him knowing three years ago to ask me to force his resignation. Is that correct?’  
  
Hannibal has always tried to plan for every outcome. But one mistake, one lapse of emotion three years ago and Hannibal is here, staring down the barrel of it. If Will were here, he would laugh for this. Of that, Hannibal is certain.  
  
‘The work was hurting him,’ Hannibal explains, the anger from then puncturing through the anger of now and together they fester in Hannibal’s gut. ‘The stress combined with his empathy disorder was too severe for his well-being. Will would never have said anything himself, he is too self-sacrificing. You were too careless with it. I stepped in because I felt it was right to do so.’  
  
‘As his psychiatrist or-?’  
  
Hannibal seethes. Jack must notice, as he nearly smiles.  
  
‘How is any of this relevant?’ Hannibal asks, uncaring for their audience of the detective, who has finally realised she is out of her depth with what lies between himself and Jack so many years in. Hannibal looks to the clock again. ‘What are you doing right now to find Will?’  
  
‘Everything we can,’ Jack repeats and Hannibal just resists the urge to grab him by the tie and strangle him with it. Jack must see this, too as he continues a little more gentle; ‘We have someone watching finances for his cards. Your home phone has been tapped, in case of a ransom call. Quantico is also on alert for that, in case this is about work. Known offenders in the area are being interviewed. Right now, all I’m trying to do is get a sense of where to start looking.’  
  
‘Then look,’ Hannibal says darkly. ‘We are wasting time.’  
  
‘Everyone wants to find Will, Hannibal,’ the detective says, in that same placating whine from before. Hannibal tries to resist simply asking her to contain herself. ‘He’s the quiet type, right? I don’t think we ever spoke properly.’  
  
Will probably knows more about the detective from the one or two brief meetings between them than she will about Will after this entire thing is over. Will can see so much so easily, the sheer volume of it swelling inside of Will like some great ocean. He shifts like the waves, reflects and drowns things so deep Will can never hope to find them again. Sometimes, they wash to shore. Most times, they swirl dark and decaying in the depths. Will is afraid of it, has always been so as long as Hannibal has known him. Barely keeping his head above water, Will kicks against the current.  
  
Hannibal so often pictures himself there, along Will’s surface. Lying together, Hannibal will hold Will’s face and watch the colour change in his eyes. Hannibal will touch Will's skin, trace the bone of his sternum and feel the warm give of Will’s body where they meet. _What are you thinking?_ Hannibal always wonders, Will soft and pliant beneath. _Who are you in this moment? What do you see?_  
  
Will once said to Hannibal that his home feels safer when Will isn’t in it, that he only feels the shelter of his walls when outside of them and making sure no one breaches them. Hannibal feels that way about their marriage. Hannibal wants to brace the door and let nothing in, and nothing out.  
  
‘And you said he was unwell, right? Has he got any medication, anything we can ask pharmacists and hospitals to look out for?’  
  
No, as Will will not take it. The tests, the medication or the embarrassment. Despite Hannibal’s reassurances, his soft pressures- Will has resisted accepting he has encephalitis.

Hannibal is never wrong, has been frustrated for months over Will’s foolishness. Will has let is fester in his brain, let the fever build like a stone in the sun and decides every day to let monsters crawl into their bed. His nightmares haven’t been so severe since he was still working for Jack, letting stray killers and lesser men in traipsing blood and dirt behind them.  
  
A relapse of stress, Will claims though Hannibal knows better. Has always known better, when it comes to Will. Will says he knows what Hannibal doesn't, that medication won’t help as this ailment is simply Will’s brain breaking under too much weight.

In his darkest moments, alone and without the evidence before him, Hannibal worries Will is right. That the mind that had first curved like a hook in Hannibal’s cheek is decaying and is losing itself to something Hannibal cannot prevent.  
  
But then Hannibal remembers- remembers that he is right and that Will is scared, and that is a dangerous combination.  
  
They fight about it, Hannibal is ashamed to admit, even to himself. They are not to type for petty squabbles, true grievances often bright, jagged and over in an instant. Lightning across the sky. It is shameful, base even, how Hannibal allows it to happen and oh, how Will always seem to revel in that. He twists Hannibal’s possessiveness like a bar so it is permanently out of shape, unable to bear weight and Hannibal is left with it stuck inside him.  
  
Will knows Hannibal too well to take the diagnosis for what it is, even if true. He sees too clearly into Hannibal's heart. And Hannibal has been careless, Will tracking the jealous shift Hannibal feels as Will lets his mind unravel to stray influences for nothing but pride.  
  
_It does not belong to you,_ Will had said one evening after Hannibal caught him in a dream. _You can’t put a collar on my thoughts._  
  
Hannibal had been so furious that night, so perturbed by his own weakness thrown back at him and his own need refusing to be coddled. He had left Will where he had found him, waited silent in their bed for when Will would inevitably come back to him. Will hadn’t come back that night, had instead slept in front of the fire in the study on the floor with the dog. Will would rather cut a piece of himself out and throw it away than surrender it, even to Hannibal.  
  
It is the fulcrum of their romance.  
  
The detective has taken over the questions unexpectedly. Jack is now deferring to her lead, watching Hannibal and still lingering on his feet than sitting. Hannibal answers best he can, wonders how long the DNA swab will take after this.  
  
No, Hannibal does not know what Will had planned for today. No, there are no medical records to back up his diagnosis of encephalitis. No, he can’t think of anything strange that has happened in the last few weeks. No, they have no troubles with money. This one gives Hannibal pause.  
  
‘It’s what everyone fights about with their spouse,’ the detective says with a shrug. Jack nods along, but his eyes are distant. He’s somewhere else and Hannibal feels a kinship he did not expect- both he and Jack are without, wondering where their spouse could be. If they are safe, if they are aware. Only Hannibal is lucky. Hannibal will get his back. ‘So we gotta ask about the money.’  
  
‘Will has never wanted for anything,’ Hannibal says firmly, trying to resist the need that simmers inside to prove this. To assuage any doubt that he ever leaves Will neglected. ‘Our estate is substantial.’  
  
Our, not _mine_ and Hannibal is careful to make that clear.  
  
‘Strong incentive for a kidnapper then,’ the detective says and her relief is obvious. Finally, between the crisscross fire of Jack’s ire and Hannibal’s impatience, a motive reveals itself. Hannibal does not care what the motive is. Something has been stolen and Hannibal doesn’t have to pay anything but attention to what happens next. ‘Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted to get a piece of it?’  
  
‘No one particular. Will is resistant to making our financial situation known. I find it extremely unlikely, if not impossible for him to have mentioned the reality of it to anyone outside of the two of us. But it is not too difficult a guess to get right. My practice offers much just by reputation.’

'And you're sure you can't think of anyone who might want to hurt him for anything else?' the detective asks, glancing at Jack before she adds; 'Agent Crawford here mentioned a Matthew Brown. Can you tell me a little more about that?'  
  
Hannibal hides his irritation that Jack would share that information. Hannibal had been careless to suggest Brown in the first place, throwing Jack the same scent Hannibal might follow himself. But it's too late to take it back now and if Hannibal tries to backtrack, Jack will notice. Things are difficult enough as it is.   
  
'It was a few months after we had married. Matthew Brown was an orderly at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane,' Hannibal explains dutifully and even saying the name of Frederick Chilton's glorified zoo of an establishment awashes Hannibal with a sense of disdain. 'He assisted Will on the few occasions Will had to visit certain inmates for interview, at Agent Crawford's request.' Hannibal is sure to include Jack in this. Credit where credit is due. 'He was... keen, we shall say.'  
  
'On Will?' the detective asks with a twitch in her mouth. Vulgar, Hannibal thinks again.   
  
'Yes. Of a sort.'  
  
'You can't have been pleased about that,' the detective suggests and Hannibal sees nothing in lying about it.   
  
'I wasn't. But Will was insistent that it was nothing to concern myself with. It then came to Matthew sending Will hand-written letters. First to his office in Quantico, and then our home. Matthew had gotten our address from a local tabloid.' Even now, the memory of Freddie Lounds' carelessness brings Hannibal the closest he usually comes to finally making a decision about that woman. 'Will never responded, most being thrown away without even being opened once he recognised them for what they were. After going unanswered for some time, Matthew came to our home, armed with a knife.'  
  
'He attacked you?' the detective asks and Hannibal nods. He still has the scars under his shirt from the knife Brown had brought down on him.  
  
'And Will, though he was gentler. In the end, that's what allowed Will to overpower him. We incapacitated him and called Agent Crawford. Matthew had two previous convictions of assault and was convicted once more and for stalking. He was sentenced to four years.'  
  
'He was released in 2016,' Jack says and Hannibal doesn't have to feign his surprise to hear this. Jack looks as displeased about it as Hannibal is hearing it. 'Suspended sentence on parole.'  
  
'Where is he now?' Hannibal asks but Jack is a hard wall, giving to nothing.   
  
'Don't worry, Doctor Lecter,' Jack says, placating. 'We're taking Matthew Brown very seriously.'   
  
'It seems you are taking me far more seriously,' Hannibal says carelessly but he feels it none-the-less. Jack tenses and the detective leans back in her chair. 'I understand you must follow your procedures, but my husband is missing, Jack. He is missing and you've just informed me that someone who intended us harm is free to do so once again.'  
  
'Matthew Brown was relocated out of state,' Jack offers and it's not much, but enough for Hannibal to narrow it down. 'The FBI is tracking him down as we speak.'  
  
'You will tell me if you find anything?'  
  
Jack looks for a second like he might say  _No,_ before; 'Of course, Doctor Lecter.'  
  
The room settles then and the detective stands up suddenly. She gives Hannibal a smile.

‘Alright. I think that’s all we can do right now. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight? The FBI lab will be in your home for the night, I’m afraid.’  
  
‘I can arrange a hotel.’  
  
‘Okay. Get one nearby, we’ll need you close in case we get a development,’ the detective says and Hannibal hears what she isn’t saying. Don’t leave town. She turns to Jack. ‘Your team ready for that DNA?’  
  
Jack just nods, standing up straight. He does not offer Hannibal his hand as Hannibal stands up. Jack walks over and takes up the recorder, turning it off and the detective leaves the room as Hannibal finishes replacing his coat. Jack walks around the table and reaches out. He holds Hannibal by the shoulder, steady but not as hard as Hannibal imagines he wants to go. Jack looks at Hannibal, his eyebrows tight together in a frown.  
  
‘Have you told us everything?’ Jack asks quietly and Hannibal meets his eye, unafraid. ‘I know you. I know Will. You can’t go playing hero here. You’ll get hurt, or worse you could get Will hurt.’  
  
Jack’s grip tightens.  
  
‘Will can’t get hurt,’ Jack says and on that, Hannibal agrees with him. ‘If there is something you’re not telling me, I will find out.’  
  
‘I’ve given you everything you need,’ Hannibal says truthfully and he wonders if Jack can tell. Jack’s grip doesn’t loosen. ‘You will do what you need to do. And I will do what I have to do. What Will expects me to do.’  
  
‘And what’s that?’ Jack asks, on edge.  
  
‘Will always knows that I will come for him,’ Hannibal says, and he touches his ring again. His shirt is creased at the elbows from how much he has done so this evening. ‘I made a promise to him, sometime ago. And I always keep my promises, Jack.’  
  
‘You promised me you’d stop him getting too close,’ Jack says with anger. And it is that that finally breaks Hannibal’s resolve, for reasons he does not understand.  
  
‘And I did,’ Hannibal says firmly, reaching out and taking Jack’s hand off him. He holds Jack hard and wants to keep going until Jack’s bones break. ‘I got Will out from under your thumb before you crushed him. I have always wanted what’s best for Will, I have always wanted to protect him.’  
  
Jack steps back suddenly, leaves the door clear for Hannibal to walk through. ‘Right. And you’ve done a bang up job.’  
  
Hannibal wants to break Jack’s ribs until they splinter and make a cage out of them. Instead, he balls his fists and leaves, Jack’s words still clear in his mind.


	6. Will Graham: August 7th

**August 7th, 2013**

 

_It’s 8:32pm. I’m in Wolf Trap, Virginia. And I’m about to make a decision._

Will doesn’t recognise the number. He’s never received a call from it before and he considers not answering, but curiosity gets the better of him.

‘Hello?’

‘Good evening, Will.’

Oh.

Will sits up from where he had been lying in his bed. It’s Hannibal and Will hasn’t heard his voice in over three weeks. He sounds the same. Will shouldn’t be surprised- what could possibly have changed about him?

Asides from the obvious.

Will kicks off his sheets, feeling self-conscious though Hannibal surely can’t know one way or another that Will is already in bed. Will tries to think of something to say, but he can’t. Or rather he can’t think of anything sensible.

‘You missed your appointment,’ Hannibal says when it becomes clear Wil is not going to say something. ‘I was just calling to make sure everything was all right. It’s been nearly a month since our last.’

A killer in Athens, Georgia had pulled Will away for the last few weeks. The victims had their chests stripped, split down the middle and ribs spread like a cage. Inside they had been filled with stones- quartz, topaz and geodes- and hot resin had been poured in on top. The effect had been like looking into a macabre aquarium.

Will dreams of it. Of walking along rivers frozen glass-sheen with ice and looking down beneath his feet. Pale, white hands flash like fish between towering and glittering stones underneath- a whole world suspended.

They’d stayed until the second, as it turned out. After that, Will had followed flower petals that had been left along the surface of the resin. Foreign orchids, with gold lustre fingerprints of the victim beforehand. The killer had been swinging from a noose by the time they’d arrived.

‘Will?’  
  
Will falls through time, lands softly back in his bed and is called back Hannibal’s voice. The port in his storm.

‘You came to get me last time I didn’t show up.’ Will speaks without thinking. As usual.

‘Would you rather I come get you?’ Hannibal asks curiously down the line. ‘I had considered that you were avoiding meeting me on purpose.’

‘Why would I do that?’

Hannibal’s silence is all that answers him as Will remembers with a crushing blow of embarrassment that wipes everything else away. The last time they had seen each other, Will had awoken to nightmares. He had dreamed of his feet being sucked beneath wet, sinking mud and a child screaming. There was hair around Will’s fingers like seaweed.  
  
He had woken in Hannibal’s bed- a large, satin pit beneath the flame of a mirror. Hannibal had been watching him in the dawn-dark, silent. Will hadn’t said anything, hadn’t even thanked him. He’d got up from the bed and fled.

Will had kissed him the night before then. Had gotten hard in front of him. And had interrogated Hannibal about murder long committed through the whole thing, sex a knife in Will’s gut that twists. Will folds in on himself like paper, nearly hanging up. But he doesn’t.

‘No,’ Will continues with a hard swallow. ‘No. I’m not avoiding you.’

‘But you are avoiding what happened between us.’

‘Maybe. Yes? No.’ Will looks at his cobbled living room, the patchwork of dogs that are huddled together in front of the fireplace. The raw stone and green walls. Nothing like Hannibal’s meticulous bed. ‘You didn’t come get me.’

‘You’ve said.’

‘Why not?’

‘Was my other answer unsatisfactory?’ Hannibal asks and Will scratches his chin, awkward.

‘It just wasn’t enough of one,’ Will replies and he hears Hannibal breathe down the phone in a laugh. Or the closest Hannibal ever seems to come. ‘You’re not calling from your office. You went home before you decided to call me. Why?’

‘Curbing expectations,’ Hannibal says to that and Will frowns, mulling it over. Hannibal huffs gently and it’s the closest to a laugh Will ever hears from him. ‘I waited for you. Eventually I decided dinner would spoil if I left it any later. There is such a thing as too long a marinade.’  
  
Dinner. Will only thinks _of course_ once Hannibal says it. Will rubs at his face, before letting himself fall backwards onto the bed. The mattress creaks in protest. ‘We all have our rituals.’  
  
‘What are your rituals, Will?’  
  
‘You could’ve called sooner,’ Will says, dodging the question.  
  
‘You could’ve remembered,’ Hannibal says and Will doesn’t really have any answer for that. The reason sounds weak now, even to Will himself. Hannibal takes evident pity. ‘Tell me about your killer in Athens.’  
  
‘You shouldn’t give Freddie Lounds the views,’ Will scolds but there’s no heart in it. Hannibal tracks Will’s bloody path as avidly as Lounds does herself it feels like, why not save each other the bother where they can? ‘You’ll encourage her bad behaviour.’  
  
Hannibal doesn’t answer so Will grips the blanket, feels the cheap cotton and polyester crease into his palm. Tries to ground himself.  
  
‘They were sick,’ Will starts because Hannibal is waiting. ‘There was something inside of them- a poison. He carved it out and filled them with resin. There were stones in the chest cavity. Purple ones, and yellow. In the dawn, the sun filled them like water and they poured colours all over the grass where it shone through.’  
  
Will pictures it so clearly, the first body he saw. The burst of vibrancy and the crisscross shadow of where the broken and splintered ribs. The brittle yellow grass was a sunset beneath the body, the dawn turning its skin waxy. Mixed media, Will thinks to himself and nearly laughs. Perhaps he really is losing it.  
  
‘Did he heal them?’ Hannibal asks and Will settles back into the present.  
  
‘He murdered them,’ Will says and Hannibal makes a noise that’s not quite a tut, but it’s pretty close. Will sighs, remembering the flower petals caught in the resin and how they were frozen mid-flight. ‘He cleansed them. He couldn’t bring them back, he didn’t want to.’  
  
‘What did he want?’  
  
‘To enlighten them,’ Will explains and his room is burnished with the sunset outside as the evening tides over. There’s no warmth in the sun, autumn will be coming soon and Will feels the leaves are already thirsting for rain that hums in the clouds. ‘He wanted to purify them for the next part of their journey.’  
  
‘Natural resin was used in the embalming process for mummification. It was also used for healing. When Christ came to earth, he was gifted myrrh,’ Hannibal says and Will closes his eyes and imagines they are in Hannibal’s office. Or he tries to. Instead, Will finds himself imagining Hannibal’s kitchen.  
  
He sees Hannibal in front of him. Feels Hannibal’s lips, can taste the blood and his face prickles with heat. It slips down his neck, under his shirt and coils deep in Will’s stomach. He takes a breath, where it shakes between his lungs and he imagines Hannibal’s hand in his belly, turning like a corkscrew around the want that boils there.  
  
‘He also got gold,’ Will points out, trying to distract himself. ‘And frankincense.’  
  
‘Gifts for a king.’  
  
‘No kings in Athens.’  
  
‘Not by the time Christ had his turn,’ Hannibal says and Will realises too late that was supposed to be a joke. He laughs anyway and can practically hear how pleased Hannibal is through the phone. ‘The Greeks were already carrying their burdens to the pyre.’  
  
‘Perhaps they’d just built too many. Eventually, everything gets cut down to feed the fire.’  
  
‘Or to build horses.’  
  
‘Troy had fallen long before Jesus got around to making anything of wood. Horses, crosses or otherwise,’ Will says and he sits up, leaves the bed and walks the edge of it. He goes to the window and looks out at the yellow landscape. In the summer, the grass shifts like sand. ‘I don’t think anything could’ve filled the graves made there but satisfaction anyway.’  
  
‘Patroclus didn’t step into his grave until he asked Achilles to let him,’ Hannibal replies and Will watches the trees move in the wind. Will wonders who’s asked Hannibal for the permission to die.  
  
‘Have you eaten?’ Will asks, getting an idea.  
  
‘I was about to start cooking.’  
  
‘Don’t. Come here instead.’  
  
‘Why not come here? The meal will be ready by the time you arrive,’ Hannibal suggests and its pressure. Gentle, but pressure all the same. Hannibal always directs Will with a press, not a point. Will doesn’t give in.  
  
‘I want to show you something,’ Will says but he knows that won’t be enough. Hannibal is a creature of ceremony. Will wants to know how far he can push.

Will knows it’s the right thing to say, knows because he’s never said it to Hannibal before; ‘Please.’  
  
‘Please?’ Hannibal repeats and he’s tasting it, how the word sounds in Will’s voice. Will wonders what he tastes like, to a man like Hannibal. ‘Please, will I come to your home?’  
  
‘Please,’ Will says again before he hangs up. He tosses the phone onto the bed and doesn't go after it. Hannibal will decide- or he won’t.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Hannibal arrives at Will’s doorstep just shy of an hour later. The sun has set truly now, the world swallowed by blue glow and black moonlight. Will sits on one of the chairs in his living room at the end of his bed, listens to the crunch of his dirt driveway beneath Hannibal’s expensive car. The dogs are awake now, some whimpering at the noise of someone approaching. Hannibal pauses at first. Will hasn’t turned on any of the lights.  
  
Hannibal unlocks the door himself, using the key Will had given him. Hannibal never returned it to the bowl that sits by the door, it seems. Hannibal raises a hand, as if reading Will’s thoughts and places the keys into the bowl. They clink and Will flexes his toes against the floor.  
  
The dogs are a flurry of excitement and Hannibal dismisses them the way he dismisses most- he gives them exactly what they want and opens the doors for them. They lose interest quickly then and run past him into the night.  
  
Hannibal stands in the doorway, thick and damp August air wafting in behind him, turning to his right to face Will where he sits by a table beaded red, green and blue like glass in fishing lures. The automatic light from the porch is on now from the movement and it casts Hannibal in stark shadow.  
  
Will uncoils from where he has been folded into the chair. Long boxers and sagging t-shirt, Will starts the conversation with his undress in the wake of Hannibal’s fastidious appearance. Hannibal doesn’t enter further; he stands in the doorway in a long funereal coat and waits.  
  
‘You wanted to show me something?’ Hannibal suggests and his eyes roam the house, as though it’s his first time there which of course it isn’t. But it is the first time he’s been there with Will. Will wonders if the house changes shape with him inside of it. It it inflates- like lungs.  
  
‘You brought food,’ Will says, nodding to the porcelain ware Hannibal carries in his other hand. Hannibal looks at it, eyes in shadow.

‘I thought you might be hungry.’

Will isn’t but; ‘I’ll always eat what you cook.’

‘Always?’ Hannibal asks, looking up. It’s a loaded question, Will feels, but he stands with his answer.

‘I’m pretty sure you’re not going to poison me. Mostly because I think you’d hate to waste the meal, but also I’m sure you just won’t,’’ Will says and Hannibal gives another not-laugh. He turns and looks out the door, at the night that holds Will’s house in its hand.

Will looks out the window, at the shapes of the dogs diving in and out of the dark.

‘I’ll call them back while you go to the kitchen, if you like.’

‘I didn’t bring them anything.’

‘They’ll forgive you,’ Will jokes and Hannibal inclines his head, before walking down through the house towards the kitchen.

Will sits and listens to Hannibal’s footsteps. The rustle or his coat and the _clunk_ of his ware on the counter. Will soaks in it. Marinades, just long enough to stop going tough.  
  
The dogs come when called and Will leaves them by the fireplace to join Hannibal in the kitchen. Will has no table so Hannibal has set two bowls of something luridly pink and soft on the counter. There are white spirals of something through it from a spoon and Will tracks the loop of them.  
  
‘Borscht,’ Hannibal explains but Will doesn’t care. He takes the spoon Hannibal offers him and they stand, Hannibal against the sink and Will against the end of the counter. Hannibal drinks his soup from the bowl with both hands. He holds it like he held Will’s face before.  
  
Will puts down the bowl without tasting it.  
  
‘You let me stay in your bed,’ Will says and Hannibal lowers his bowl, licks his lips. Will’s stomach spikes like a thorn from the sight of it. ‘Not many people would.’  
  
‘You wanted to be near,’ Hannibal answers plainly, eyes down on the meal. ‘And I wanted you to be.’  
  
‘Why?’  
  
‘I thought you had died that day,’ Hannibal answers and Will feels elated then from the lie. Expanding inside, like the brilliant burst of gunpowder. ‘It was reassuring to remind myself that you had not.’  
  
‘I don’t believe you,’ Will says because he doesn’t. Hannibal looks at him across the kitchen. The light above them is buzzing. ‘You didn’t need my comfort.’  
  
‘I didn’t say I did.’  
  
‘You’re deflecting,’ Will says, feeling bold. He steps around the counter and Hannibal places his bowl on the counter, but keeps his hands to himself. Hannibal is the suspended string of a recurve and Will wonders what will bury inside if Hannibal releases. ‘You killed a man in a swamp and decided to become a doctor.’  
  
Will has a hand flat on the counter. It grounds him as he tries to pry his fingers into what Hannibal may be thinking. Hannibal’s eyes are glass like his lures in this moment.  
  
‘You savour vulnerability,’ Will realises aloud, tilting his head. ‘You hold it between your lips. Like a bone.’  
  
‘I like to help,’ Hannibal replies and Will ponders that for a moment.

‘I think you actually might,’ Will says and when he realises he’s stepped closer, he stops himself. His body rocks on the anchor of his hand on the counter and Hannibal is still. ‘Do you want to help me, Doctor Lecter?’  
  
Hannibal turns his head at the title, considering. He’s watching Will like he expects something sharp to come his way. ‘Do you need help, Will?’  
  
‘You say I’m suffering stress.’  
  
‘You are.’ Hannibal rolls his shoulder slightly and it’s like some great creature that’s too big for its skin. Will wants Hannibal to shed, to unfurl and unsheath. Will is tired of being the one who snags at the edges. ‘I want what’s best for you. But that’s not what you’re talking about now. Is it?’  
  
‘Depends. What do you think is best for me?’  
  
Hannibal stands up slightly straighter and Will curls inward. He wants to coil himself around what Hannibal isn’t telling him and feel the skin of it. Will teeters on the edge, one foot above the trap and waiting for the snare.  
  
‘What did you want to show me, Will?’ Hannibal asks and Will comes back to himself, pulled back. He heads for the backdoor and Hannibal follows.  
  
Outside, the air is alight with crickets. Will steps off the back porch onto the dirt, turns to check Hannibal is still following and walks out into the grass. It pricks and sticks to his bare feet, the humid August air making everything heavy. He only walks a small way, slightly around the house and stops until Hannibal stands next to him. Will turns around and looks back. Hannibal mirrors him.  
  
‘I wanted you to see my ship,’ Will says, wondering if Hannibal understands. Will puts his hands down his side before he does something careless with them. ‘I wanted you to… I wanted you to see. So you would know.’  
  
Will looks over to see Hannibal is watching him, not the house.  
  
‘Would you remember me?’ Will asks in the dark, the light of his house drifting away. ‘This place. Even if someone asked you to forget?’  
  
‘Memory gives moments immortality.’  
  
‘To live forever inside what you loved about them. You may give something life that should never have lived at all.’  
  
‘We aim to preserve what we don’t wish to lose,’ Hannibal says and the way his s’s sound makes Will’s skin shiver. They’re are stretched out like taffy, sticking words together. ‘Do you think it better to keep some if not all?’  
  
‘What if you end up keeping a lie?’ Will says, his body moving. He and Hannibal are facing each other now. ‘What if you love a secret?’  
  
‘Is that not what to love is, at its core?’ Hannibal asks and Will breathes out very slowly. ‘To be aware of someone, to know the parts of them they may not know themselves and want them closer all the more for it?’  
  
‘That’s not quite the same thing.’  
  
‘Is someone’s secret who they are, or is their choice of keeping it a more defining feature?’ Hannibal says and he raises a hand. He hesitates, just slightly and it sets Will’s heart on fire. It cracks like stone in his chest as Hannibal reaches out to touch Will’s cheek. ‘If you love someone for what they don’t tell you, would you call it a betrayal to hold it against them when they finally confess the truth?’  
  
‘I would call it abuse,’ Will says honestly, closing his eyes at the feel of Hannibal’s cool skin against his own. ‘Honesty is not a bargaining chip.’  
  
‘But you bet with it every day.’  
  
‘I spend it. It’s not quite the same thing.’  
  
Hannibal comes closer and Will feels the tension in his stomach go like bridge-wires. Holding the whole structure up.  
  
‘Even now,’ Hannibal says and it’s kind, despite the meaning. Will opens his eyes as Hannibal’s thumb rubs down into his stubble. ‘Every time I see you, Will, you step around things I wasn’t aware I had left for you to find. Your honesty is diversion. How closely, you must see us to behave like this.’  
  
‘It’s more like looking out the wrong side of a telescope,’ Will confesses and there is a relief, in saying such a thing now. ‘Everyone just looks very far away.’  
  
‘Am I far away?’ Hannibal asks, curious.  
  
‘Have you ever loved someone before?’ Will counters and his hands are fists so tight his wrists pain. Hannibal looks at the house, his mind slipping away to rooms Will has not been given the key to yet.  
  
‘I had my sister,’ Hannibal says after a long moment of cricket-song. Will wonders if the world will flood beneath them with swamp water.  
  
‘Do her secrets live for you?’ Will asks and Hannibal is still lost to the past, it seems.  
  
‘She never grew to have secrets. I’m all alone with my own, it seems,’ Hannibal replies and he looks at Will then. Will almost says it, changes his mind. Falters, tries again and stops once more. Hannibal watches, eyes going down Will’s nose. Resting on his lips.  
  
‘Decide for me,’ Will says finally, choked and Hannibal’s look is a question. ‘I don’t want anyone else.’  
  
‘Anyone else to decide for you, or-?’  
  
‘Or,’ Will answers and he waits. He wants Hannibal to do it. He wants Hannibal to be the one who changes them.  
  
Hannibal takes his hand away and Will puts his chin forward, following it and without quite keenly. ‘Take me inside, Will.’  
  
Will leads Hannibal back to the living room, hovers between the bed and the door and waits for Hannibal to- to do well, _anything._ The anticipation rattles in Will and when Hannibal touches him, Will flinches with the embarrassing heat the floods the corners of his eyes.  
  
Hannibal has a hand in Will’s hair, the other around Will’s wrist and when Hannibal kisses him Will erupts. He claws his hands onto Hannibal’s back, clutching there and dragging Hannibal closer. Their meeting is a violence, Hannibal’s lips warm with spice Will can’t name and Will opens his mouth to let Hannibal in.  
  
Hannibal’s tongue meets his without care, without precision and Will groans deep and presses his hips forward. His mind is the flickering static of a television- reels of what Hannibal is doing, what he might and what Will wants spliced together until Will’s balls grow tight in his boxers. He’s getting hard, is shameless in how dissected it makes him under Hannibal’s hands.  
  
The kiss is sex. It’s lurid, wet and Will closes his lips around Hannibal’s tongue and sucks on it. Hannibal is almost silent, but his breath is quick and his body tenses against Will like a trigger. Will breaks it only to pull off his own t-shirt, Hannibal’s hands frozen where Will has left them. His eyes are dark and Will wants to fall right through them.  
  
Will reaches out and gets a hand around Hannibal’s tie. There is no jacket, but the tie is tight beneath a waistcoat and it whispers as it slides out. Will steps back towards the bed, pulls Hannibal forward by his leash.  
  
‘Would you hurt me?’ Will asks as Hannibal reaches to unbutton his own waistcoat. ‘If I asked you to?’  
  
‘Are you asking?’  
  
‘No,’ Will says and the waistcoat falls to the floor. Hannibal touches Will’s stomach, caresses with a large, cold palm and Will sucks his breath in. ‘I just want to know you would, because then I’ll know you won’t.’  
  
‘I don’t want you to hurt,’ Hannibal says and Will truly believes him. ‘But if you asked something of me, I will try to give it to you.’  
  
‘Be a secret for me,’ Will pleads, desperate and he releases the tie to drag Hannibal’s shirt out of his trousers. ‘Would it bother you?’  
  
‘I’ll be anything you need me to be,’ Hannibal says and he takes Will’s hand. He raises it to his lips, kisses the inside of Will’s wrist and Will misses a breath. Stopped, like a clock and his cock swells with a kick of need in his stomach. ‘I’ll be a secret, if you promise to keep me.’  
  
‘I’ll keep you,’ Will promises and he brings them together again to scramble at Hannibal’s buttons, biting at Hannibal’s lips and letting his mouth fall slack open for Hannibal to kiss deeper. Will gets his hands on Hannibal’s skin, slaps a hand flat against Hannibal’s chest and Hannibal finally makes a sound. A small half-swallowed thing that rings in Will’s ears. He wants to hear it again.  
  
Hannibal suddenly sinks to the floor and Will’s hands are swept over him, over his shoulders and Hannibal kneels before them. Will looks down, feels the bake of Hannibal’s satisfaction like the sun. Will’s hands tremble in the air as Hannibal pulls down his boxers, his cock aching and Will can see it slipping between Hannibal’s lips so clearly in his mind he has to close his eyes.  
  
‘Hannibal,’ Will says before he yelps, loud enough for one of the dogs to bark in surprise. Hannibal as sunk his teeth into Will’s hip, at the narrow gape of where his pelvis caves in and Will squirms onto his heels from it.  
  
Will curls his hand in Hannibal’s hair and pulls because he knows he can pull as hard as he likes, Hannibal will not move until he wishes to. Hannibal sucks over his bite, kisses down lower and Will loses patience. He summons it again, that hunger that sits in Hannibal’s chest like a pit. Will’s lust turns over it, skewered.  
  
‘Hannibal,’ Will says again and this time he’s ready- Hannibal grins, feral, against Will’s skin but Will looks down at him and keens. _‘Hannibal.’_  
  
Hannibal looks up and Will is silenced for a moment by what he sees there. Hannibal is not quite without expression; his face is just alive now. His cheeks are red, his mouth swollen. His hair displaced and Will tugs eagerly to get Hannibal to stand. Will kicks his boxers away and settles backwards onto the bed, taking Hannibal down with him.  
  
The shirt Hannibal is still wearing fans open, cocoons Will in the scent of him and Hannibal’s hands run up and along Will’s arms to pin them above his head. The cotton of Hannibal’s trousers is too rough against the nakedness of Will’s cock but Will rolls up, feels the drag of where he’s wet and leaking against fabric. Hannibal huffs against Will’s throat and Will feels teeth. He doesn’t yield.  
  
Will flips them and Hannibal bounces on the cheap bed, amusement colouring his face and Will would smile back if he wasn’t so hungry for it. If he wasn’t so greedy for the way Hannibal’s skin looks in the strange-dark of the room with moonlight pouring through the windows. If he wasn’t so desperate to dig his nails into Hannibal’s thighs and lay waste there.  
  
Will tears at Hannibal’s trousers, gets them down just enough to take a hold of Hannibal’s cock. He’s hard and so hot, completely at odds with his cool hands and Will moans whore-sick and eager. Hannibal’s eyes flicker, his chin rising with a noise he just catches. Will lays down atop him, wraps a hand around them both best he can.  
  
Hannibal is uncut, and there is so much skin Will feels drunk with the feeling of it everywhere. Hannibal grips Will by the hair, forces his head longways so Hannibal can ravage his lips with biting, fucking kisses that causes Will to rut against the velvet slip of Hannibal’s cock like an animal. There is a weak, whimpering noise in Will’s chest and Hannibal is determined to tear it out with his teeth it seems and Will squeezes his fingers, slips with slick that pools from he leaks at the feeling of Hannibal’s cockhead curbing against his own.  
  
‘I want to be inside you,’ Will says against Hannibal’s lips and he doesn’t just mean the sex, but the image illuminates in Will’s mind. He can feel it already, knows how gorgeous Hannibal will be as he lets Will fuck him. Will is thrusting without any grace now, but Hannibal’s chest is heaving. His shirt-sleeved arms are a fevered cage that Will throws himself against.  
  
‘Will-’ is all Hannibal says and it’s the most he’s said so far. It’s more than enough and Will collapses down more, from hand to elbow and he scratches at Hannibal’s shoulder. When Hannibal bucks up to meet him, Will comes so suddenly it punches the air out of him. He feels it spread liquid hot between them and then Hannibal goes very still beneath him, stomach stuttering like an engine as he comes.  
  
Will uses both hands to lift himself up but his body shakes, the tight snap of his balls after orgasm bleeding a syrup sweet satisfaction through him as he does. He uses the height to hang his mouth over Hannibal’s, to watch and wait for Hannibal to open his eyes. When Hannibal does, he blinks at Will like he’s seeing something else. Just for a moment and Will smiles, because only Hannibal would do such a thing.  
  
The sheets are ruined. Hannibal’s trousers, too no doubt. Will looks at everything, wants to remember every detail. He wants to give this moment the chance to live forever.  
  
‘Stay with me,’ Will asks, begs. Hannibal touches his chin with two fingers and Will imagines blood, imagines Hannibal leaving a mark like a brand.  
  
‘Where else would I go?’ Hannibal asks and Will wants to answer, because there are so many places Hannibal can go but when Will said please, Hannibal came here.  
  
Will grabs towels from the bathroom to help with the aftermath. Hannibal considers himself with only a modicum of distaste, but the state of his clothing gets a little more of a disparaging glance. Will smirks and looks away so Hannibal doesn’t catch him laughing. They climb into Will’s bed naked and warm, the springs loud from the extra weight.  
  
They lie on their sides, watching and Hannibal is so obviously assessing. Cataloguing and Will shifts under the blanket. ‘There’s not going to be a test, you know. Don’t have to recreate me from memory.’  
  
‘I would have preferred to have been more thorough,’ Hannibal says and he does sound slightly disappointed. Or as close as someone like Hannibal can get. Will catches what he means. Will can’t face it though and turns onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.  
  
‘There’ll be other chances.’  
  
‘I would not presume on you, Will.’  
  
‘I asked you to be mine,’ Will says and he raises a hand only to go cowardly with it. He lies it next to his head, palm up. ‘That implies a constant state of being.’  
  
‘You asked me to be your secret,’ Hannibal corrects and Will waits for a judgement that doesn’t come. ‘And you are never a constant state of anything, it feels. You’re in flux.’  
  
‘You make me sound like a problem.’  
  
When Hannibal doesn’t answer that, Will turns his head. Hannibal is looking thoughtful- always a dangerous sign. Will slides his hand along the pillow, touches Hannibal’s cheek and brings Hannibal back to him.  
  
‘You are not something I wish to solve,’ Hannibal says to the question Will doesn’t ask. Will swallows, an emotion too barbed to be voiced caught in his throat. ‘You are my friend. And something else, too. If we are to name it. I’ll have you as you are.’  
  
‘Do you even know who that is?’ Will asks, wanting to be closer but somehow this is harder to ask for than the sex. He stays to his side of the bed. ‘I feel like I carry parts of other people around me in my shoes.’  
  
‘Or perhaps you wear them like armour.’  
  
‘I’m not fighting anything that requires armour.’  
  
Hannibal smiles. Bares a sharp edge of teeth. ‘Patroclus wore Achilles’ armour the day he died.’  
  
‘Are you saying something about my fight or my fate?’  
  
‘The two are not exclusive of each other,’ Hannibal says and he reaches up to take Will’s hand. Hannibal has broad fingers that makes Will feel like something fragile that must be balanced carefully. It makes him squirm. ‘Achilles wished for all Greeks to die, so he and Patroclus could conquer Troy alone. Patroclus sacrificed his identity for death.’  
  
‘Patroclus and who he was to Achilles wasn’t the tragedy of Troy,’ Will says, frowning at Hannibal’s implication. Metaphorical or otherwise. ‘Helen’s the one who suffered the most.’  
  
‘You think so?’  
  
‘Patroclus and Achilles went into the battle for glory. They went in by design.’  
  
‘There are those who argue it could’ve been Helen’s design.’  
  
‘Not the Iliad though,’ Will retorts and Hannibal concedes the point with a smile. Will doesn’t find it all that funny, to be honest. ‘There’s no tragedy in men who chose a fight and lose it. But a city burned by the grief of someone hurt for a beauty they can’t help just makes me… I don’t know. It just makes me sad.’  
  
‘She brought Troy to its ruin.’  
  
‘Can’t hold a bullet responsible for what the shooter does.’  
  
‘The face that launched a thousand ships,’ Hannibal says and Will looks at him. Hannibal is watching him strangely and Will’s frown gets deeper. As if seeing what Will is trying to do, Hannibal reaches out and pulls Will to him. ‘Beauty can be a terrible thing.’  
  
Will settles in against Hannibal’s body, relieved and he breathes in the scent of sex, and sweat and the stale cologne. ‘Covetous is worse.’  
  
‘We covet what we see every day,’ Hannibal says and Will goes still in Hannibal’s arms. He leans up, chin resting on Hannibal’s chest and tries to follow the colour in Hannibal’s eye.  
  
‘What do you covet?’ Will asks quietly and Hannibal takes a breath.  
  
‘Something that I hope doesn’t lay waste to my city,’ Hannibal answers, taking Will’s face and guiding him back up for another kiss. ‘Something that won’t end in tragedy.’  
  
‘You’d prefer if it did,’ Will says between the soft press of their lips and Hannibal smirks beneath him, all bite and Will’s heart delights with it.  
  
‘People remember a tragedy.’  
  
Will puts his head back on Hannibal’s chest, listens to his heartbeat and wonders if he could make his beat in tandem. If from across hours or miles, he and Hannibal might still exist together in one place. Will repeats, arms tight around Hannibal’s waist; ‘Memory makes moments immortal.  
  
How nice it would be, Will thinks, if this were to exist forever. Even if only for people to shake their head and think  _How awful, it must've been._  
  
Will closes his eyes and sleeps easily. He dreams of a city made of stones beneath a purple sky, burning down around him. He smiles through it, holding a heart in his hand. 


	7. Jack Crawford: One Day Gone

**One Day Gone**

 

Jack looks up from the table when Beverly walks in. She’s got a folder in her hand and a look on her face that tells Jack they found something and whatever it is, he isn’t going to like it.

Jack shakes his head before she can say anything, signalling for her to wait. He excuses himself from the room, leaving Detective Hughes and her team to where they are reviewing the long list of procedures the FBI has delivered to them. It’s gone midnight now and the local force is running out of steam.  
  
Jack and Beverly walk down the hall, towards the quiet of the holding cells which are empty. The lights aren’t on in the small office they step into and Jack takes the folder. ‘What did you find?’  
  
‘You were right about the blood,’ Beverly says which isn’t an answer at all.

Earlier, as Jack had taken a walk through the impressive sprawl of Hannibal’s ground floor, he had spotted something in the hall between the kitchen and dining room. Dark purple in the grains of the wood floor, barely visible except for someone looking. Jack had been looking.

‘We found transfer pattern against the skirting board. Nothing conclusive there, it’s only a small amount.’  
  
Jack feels a _but_ coming. Beverly is hovering and looking at Jack’s chest, eyes down. Her eyes are shiny anyway.  
  
‘So then we checked the kitchen, because you had him in the dining room,’ she starts as Jack opens the folder. Beverly says _him_ of Hannibal the way most people say _cancer._ Her voice is firm but her hands are twitching in front her, winding the fingers together. A nervous habit Jack has noticed in her before. ‘And Jack… it lit up.’  
  
‘How bad?’ Jacks asks but it’s needless, because in the folder are the high saturation photos taken by the CSI team of the luminol reaction in Hannibal’s kitchen.

Clinical in blue and black and white, but just as grisly. There is a large swell of blood on the floor, so thick it’s blinding where the luminol has reacted. There’s more transfer pattern in sweeping circles through it, two defined handprints. Someone tried to clean it up.  
  
‘At least two pints. At least,’ Beverly says as Jack looks through the photos. There’s one of small, dotted impact splatter across the edge of Hannibal’s expensive island, right along the line of the stovetop. ‘It’s all B negative though, Will’s blood type, but we haven’t got DNA match back yet. Zeller guesses blunt force trauma, but with this amount of blood it could’ve been anything.’  
  
‘Weapon?’ Jack does not specify which kind and Beverly doesn’t either.  
  
‘Nothing yet. All the kitchen utensils we’ve screened so far have come back clean. Not even for meat traces that we can see. Lecter runs a clean kitchen, it seems.’  
  
Jack looks at the amount of blood that was spilled on the floor. Class 2 haemorrhage- if they’re lucky. He’s not sure they’re lucky. He creases the cheap paper.  
  
‘Fingerprint transfers?’ Jack asks when he turns to the next photo again, this time showing one of the two bloody handprints, dragged until the blood stopped smearing. His stomach turns.  
  
‘Only Will’s. In the kitchen, as you can see. Checked against our own records and it’s a match.’  
  
‘What about Hannibal?’  
  
‘Only fingerprints where they should be and none where we expect to find them. He could’ve worn gloves, there’s a packet of medical grade disposables under the sink in one of the downstairs bathrooms. We’ll know more once he’s processed and we can conclusively hold the fingerprints found to him, but right now, it doesn’t look like there was a third person in the house.’  
  
‘What rooms have we ruled out?’  
  
‘Guest bedrooms, living room. Upstairs bathroom, pantry and that other lounge room in the back.’ Master bedroom does not make the list and Jack feels it again. That rub of anger. ‘Price is still working on the garage in the back and the garden.’  
  
‘Basement?’ Jack asks, because maybe it’s nothing. Maybe. Beverly shakes her head.  
  
‘Still locked and the door is heavy, so we can’t just nudge it by mistake. We won’t be able to open it without Lecter letting us or a warrant.’  
  
‘Did you speak to Will toady?’ Jack asks and Beverly takes a breath before shaking her head. ‘Has he said anything in the last few weeks that might’ve suggested what he was thinking? Mentioned anything strange, anything that might have had him worried?’  
  
‘You know Will,’ Beverly says, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Asking him about the weather is like pulling hen’s teeth. At best. At worst it’s more like trying to get that hen to play the piano while singing the Macarena. He keeps things close to the chest.’  
  
‘I want to know what else he was keeping,’ Jack says, rubbing a hand over his face. He needs a shave. ‘What was in the gift?’  
  
Beverly looks stricken. ‘We didn’t open it.’  
  
‘I want it open,’ Jack says, closing the folder. There’s a clot in Jack’s stomach, something too tight and knarled to come undone and it throbs inside of him.

Will is a man that prefers to turn the lights off. And Jack knows from experience that Hannibal can hold his own in a fight, can put someone down if he really needs to and those two things would seem unconnected to anyone who didn’t know them like Jack does. 

  
‘You think Hannibal did it.’ Beverly keeps her voice down, cautious but there’s steel in her eye and Jack has always admired that in her.  
  
‘I don’t know what I think,’ Jack deflects, handing the folder back to Beverly. She takes it and tucks it close, like a secret. ‘But Price says there was a bag in the bedroom.’  
  
‘Yeah. Packed and left on the bed. It was covered in coal dust,’ Beverly explains and she answers from the look on Jack’s face before he says anything. ‘Price reckons it was hidden in a small chest thing they have by the fireplace.’  
  
‘Hannibal Lecter doesn’t build his own fires, huh?’  
  
‘Guess not. Or at least not often enough to notice Will had a getaway bag stuffed next to it,’ Beverly says bitterly. ‘It’s been there a while, we think. Passport is in there, too.’  
  
‘Did you know he was thinking of leaving Hannibal?’  
  
‘I hoped,’ Beverly says. ‘But I never thought he’d actually do it. They’ve always been so…’  
  
Beverly doesn’t finish but Jack knows exactly what she means.  
  
‘A bad marriage is not a murder weapon,’ Jack says and Beverly twitches, like she’s about to hit something but stops herself in time. He stares her down, takes advantage of his height. Someone has to hold this boat steady before it tips over. ‘We don’t have a body, but I need you to prepare yourself. Let’s say Hannibal really has nothing to do with it, that doesn’t leave us with a long list of more savoury options.’  
  
Beverly doesn’t say anything. She looks at her shoes and the light from the hall is casting her face into high relief. Jack can see the lines on her face and knows that if this goes south, if this doesn’t go the way she wants it to then they’re going to get a lot deeper.  
  
‘I need you to keep your head.’  
  
‘I’m here, Jack,’ Beverly snaps, unafraid and Jack believes her. ‘But this whole thing is wrong. It’s been wrong for ages and now-’ She stops herself, breathes heavy through her nose. ‘I should’ve done something. I see Will all the time, I could see something wasn’t right.’  
  
‘Hannibal says he’s sick,’ Jack offers and Beverly pulls a face, like humour turned inside out.  
  
‘He’s not lying there at least,’ Beverly says with a huff. ‘Will hasn’t been right for a while. He looks ill. And he’s gotten way skinny, too. I remember telling him that if Hannibal loves cooking so much he should try feeding Will up a bit.’  
  
‘Does Will ever talk about Hannibal?’  
  
Beverly gives a flat look. ‘What do you think?’  
  
Jack shakes his head. Three years ago, Jack would’ve given anything to know what Will thinks of the marriage that came between them, that finally gave Will the push Jack hoped he’d never get to step back and away. But now as Jack wanders through the carnage, he finds himself unwilling to look. There’s a sense of failure lurking, a bone-heavy exhaustion before they even begin because Jack is worried it’s already over. Three years ago, Jack let Will go under the impression that it was a dumb decision, but at least Will might be happy about it.  
  
‘Marriage in trouble,’ Jack starts, looking at the cheap lino floor of the station. Counting the lines between sheets. ‘A bag packed. No plans made for the evening. But Will still bought a gift for their anniversary.’  
  
‘What are you saying?’ Beverly asks, leading and Jack isn’t quite sure yet but he has an idea.  
  
‘If Will was going to leave, why did he get the present?’  
  
‘Maybe he felt bad?’  
  
‘This is Will Graham,’ Jack says, leaning back against the door jamb. ‘He’s not exactly the consolation type. And he wouldn’t give Hannibal a gift that would only prompt more questions than was asked.’  
  
‘What else could it be?’ Beverly asks before frowning, the idea catching up with her and Jack finds it just as distasteful as she does. ‘You don’t think… he changed his mind?’  
  
She leaned back, too. Mirroring Jack in the small doorway and the half dark.  
  
‘People stay with their husbands for less,’ Jack says and he can’t help but think of Bella. He kept her perfume and still sprays it on her pillow. Jack wants to go home already.  ‘And no one can accuse Will or Hannibal of ever taking the easy way out of something.’  
  
‘But even if Will did change his mind, even if he did decide to stay- so what?’ Beverly says and she’s getting emotional. ‘It doesn’t mean Hannibal didn’t hurt him.’  
  
She does not say _kill_ and Jack picks it up instantly. He wishes he had the same conviction.  
  
‘No, it doesn’t but it’ll make getting a motive a lot harder,’ Jack says and Beverly wipes quickly at her face. Jack pretends not to notice. ‘Right now, all we have is a normal marriage with some abnormal things that can be explained away by the fact that all of it belongs to an abnormal person. Will is an easy target to sell as paranoid, even if Hannibal would never say it himself.’  
  
Jack tilts his head back, stares at the ceiling. One half yellow, the other black.  
  
‘Something happened,’ he says to Beverly, hands in his pocket. ‘Between Will buying that present and putting that bag on the bed, something happened to change Will’s mind about his marriage.’  
  
And whatever it was, it’s that Hannibal doesn’t want to tell him. Jack is sure, he’s dead sure. When he looks at Beverly again, she’s calmed herself and looks determined. He nods his head once and she understands.  
  
‘Find the motive,’ she says.  
  
‘And we find Will,’ Jack finishes, hands turning to fists. ‘Wherever that might take us

* * *

 

In the morning, Jack drives back to Chandler Square before the sun is up. There’s yellow tape on Hannibal’s front door and a police guard, smoking and talking to each other with the air steaming around them. There’s also someone in the garden who shouldn’t be there.

Jack pulls the SUV up onto the curb and heads straight towards Alana where she’s stepping through the snow in tall boots. She doesn’t smile when Jack comes close, but he notices her holding a small chew toy in her hand.  
  
‘For Winston,’ Alana explains as Jack crosses the gate, waits for her on the path. ‘He’s missing again. Hannibal is worried about him.’  
  
‘Pretty early for dog catching.’  
  
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Alana says, pushing at her hair which looks as it always does. If she is ever undone somewhere, it never shows. ‘I wanted to do something useful.’  
  
‘Hannibal here, too?’  
  
‘No. I actually hope he’s still asleep,’ Alana says and she’s all caution. She doesn’t fidget with the toy. Jack thinks he’s never seen her fidget at all. ‘He’s staying with me.’  
  
‘Not a hotel?’ Jack asks, kicking some snow off his shoe. Jack already knows where Hannibal is. He has a tail assigned.  
  
‘He shouldn’t be alone,’ Alana says and she steps onto the path. ‘This is hard for him.’  
  
Jack doesn’t say anything and Alana frowns, already scolding.  
  
‘His husband’s missing,’ Alana says and while she’s never been the type to snap, there’s definitely the edge of something hard in her tone. ‘You can’t judge him, Jack. I won’t let you.’  
  
‘Not my job to judge Hannibal,’ Jack says and Alana frowns. Jack shrugs. ‘My job is to find Will.’  
  
‘You’re looking close to home,’ Alana says and the house looms over them. Jack looks up at it. He’s always thought it a beautiful house. All the lights are out now, it looks empty and old but Jack still thinks it. It’s so tall Jack would have to tilt his head all the way back to see the top of it over the brim of his hat.  
  
‘You’re Hannibal’s friend.’  
  
‘I like to think so.’  
  
‘What about Will? Are you his friend, too?’  
  
‘How can you ask me that?’ Alana asks, offended though she’s trying to hide it. ‘Of course I am. If you have a point, Jack, please get there quickly because I don’t like how this sounds.’  
  
‘You called me before the police. You didn’t even need to get them involved, but you called them anyway.’  
  
‘I thought they’d be here faster and I thought they might help,’ Alana answers, not taking the bait. The snow is starting to fall again, so light it’s gone before it touches them. ‘I wanted things to move quickly. I didn’t think you’d be so soon. I was happy you were.’  
  
‘What were you afraid might’ve happened if they’d taken as long as you thought I would?’ Jack asks, fishing again and he’s clumsy at it. He knows it and Alana seems to be already out of patience for him.  
  
‘Ask what you want to ask me, Jack.’  
  
‘You kept Hannibal in the foyer, away from the mess,’ Jack says and Alana shows nothing, she never does and Jack is struck by a pang of envy for her composure. Jack is leaking fury like a pipe. ‘You didn’t let him search the house. He must’ve wanted to.’  
  
‘I didn’t want to disturb anything and I was worried-‘ Alana pauses, seeming to weigh her words. When she speaks again, it is as careful as everything she does. She always approaches thing so softly. ‘I was worried how Hannibal would react. He’s protective.’  
  
‘I think we all know how protective Hannibal is,’ Jack says darkly and Alana takes the chew toy with both hands. Jack wonders what Alana would do with her hands, if she ever wants to do something with them. ‘The statement you gave Agent Maher last night says you were here for roughly thirty minutes before Hannibal arrived. You were alone in the crime scene.’  
  
Alana doesn’t say anything. She’s waiting to hear Jack ask her properly, like his questions now aren’t even worthy of considering. She’s already five steps ahead and while Jack likes Alana, he has to admit it to himself. She and Hannibal really aren’t all that different. It’s no wonder Will used to swing between the two of them, all those years ago. Will clearly has a type.  
  
‘You’re the only one who can confirm Hannibal’s arrival time,’ Jack continues and Alana frowns, recalibrating her defence. Jack really hadn’t been fair to Will in the beginning. Jack isn’t that fond of therapy either. ‘And the only one who can confirm he didn’t touch anything in the house when he got there. He can’t confirm the same for you, but we’re not too worried about that. Neighbours saw your arrival time and you’ve got GPS in your car.’  
  
‘You found something,’ Alana says, not even pretending to ask.  
  
‘We found something,’ Jack replies and Alana licks her lips. It’s so cold they stick to her teeth for a second.  
  
‘You suspect Hannibal.’  
  
‘We don’t have a definite suspect yet,’ Jack says because it’s true. ‘I’m just trying to rule certain possibilities out so we can focus on what’s important.’  
  
‘Finding Will,’ Alana offers and Jack just stops himself from answering _Or what’s left of him._ Alana seems to read it from his face anyway. ‘What kind of case is this, Jack? Because if something has changed you need to tell Hannibal. He has a right to know.’  
  
_Don’t I have the right to know what’s going on with my own wife?_ Jack remembers asking Hannibal once, storming into Hannibal’s office and searching for answers to what Bella kept asking with her silence. At the time, Jack thinks he would’ve been different. He would’ve wanted to give Hannibal what Hannibal hadn’t given him. That used to be the kind of man Jack was. But Jack is someone different and Hannibal is just the same.  
  
‘You told me once that you didn’t think Hannibal  hurt Will,’ Jack says and Alana purses her lips. ‘But if I told you he did, you wouldn’t be surprised to hear it.’  
  
Alana squeezes the chew toy. It makes a weak, strained wheeze. ‘That was years ago, Jack. Things were different.’  
  
‘Are they though?’ Jack asks and it’s beginning to get light. The dark clouds are churning with bright snow as it gets a little heavier. ‘Hannibal abused his position. You said so yourself.’  
  
‘He abused his ego. That doesn’t mean he abused Will.’  
  
‘That’s now how I remember you saying it.’  
  
‘I was angry,’ Alana says firmly and she brushes at snow that settles on her nose. ‘I was angry at Hannibal for what happened. And angry at Will for not telling me. I was so sure then that Will would tell me something if he needed to. I just never considered that Hannibal was something he didn’t need to tell me about.’  
  
‘Would you have crossed that line, had Will been your patient then?’  
  
Alana looks away. ‘Will was never my patient for a reason.’  
  
‘Because he was your friend,’ Jack offers in small consolation that they have to have this conversation at all. ‘And you were attracted to him. It must’ve been hard then, to see Hannibal reap the rewards of the bad behaviour you wouldn’t take.’  
  
‘It- it wasn’t like that,’ Alana says and for the first time she sounds unsure. ‘It wasn’t jealousy, what I told you then.’  
  
‘Then what would you call it?’  
  
‘Preservation,’ Alana answers and she looks down at the chew toy. It’s missing patches of lurid red fluff, revealing white stitching beneath. ‘Both mine and Will’s. I wanted Will to have someone on his side if he’d need it. He wasn’t in the best place, I was worried he was looking for progress in the wrong direction. I was worried Hannibal was letting him, for reasons I didn’t understand.’  
  
‘Do you think you understand them now?’ Jack presses and Alana brushes off more snow. ‘Hannibal’s reasons?’  
  
‘As best as I can ever hope to understand why Hannibal does things,’ Alana says and if this were another conversation, on another day, she might’ve smiled then. ‘I had never seen him in a relationship with someone before. He had affairs, that I’d seen a few times. Will wasn’t like that though. It was… a very precarious sidestep for Hannibal into new territory.’  
  
‘Precarious because Will was his patient?’ Jack asks and Alana shakes her head.  
  
‘No, that was just collateral,’ Alana says, looking past Jack’s shoulder out into the snow as the morning grew around them. Her mind clearly elsewhere. ‘Will was never going to be the same as just anybody. He has the potential for a very specific kind of love.’  
  
‘And what’s that?’  
  
‘Something closer to blackmail than anything, I think,’ Alana says and Jack doesn’t really understand. She takes pity on him. ‘He trusted Hannibal with his secrets as a therapist. Will would never have considered that a fair playing field. He would’ve held Hannibal to it, in his own way.’  
  
‘Doesn’t sound like a healthy marriage to me,’ Jack says.  
  
Alana frowns out to the snow. ‘Will and Hannibal have always brought something very specific out in each other. You see it when they’re together. The more involved they became, the more I realised I could never be what Will needed or wanted. There’s something their marriage does for them that no one else can compare to. At a time, that might’ve made me jealous, but the more it grew around them the more I saw just how far away I always was from either of them.’  
  
‘You talk about their marriage like it’s a person.’  
  
‘Isn’t it? Sometimes I think it walks and speaks for itself and I can never tell exactly who I’m talking to.’  
  
Alana brushes snow off the chew toy. There are birds starting to sing, little black dots hopping in the bar bushes around Hannibal’s garden.  
  
‘Do you think they could’ve inspired something else in each other?’ Jack says and Alana’s eyes flash quickly, shoulders tensing. Like she’s been shocked with electricity. ‘What do you know about Hannibal’s temper?’  
  
‘Only that I’ve never seen it. The closest I think I ever saw was when he went to speak to you about Will’s job with you.’  
  
‘He’s got a cool head,’ Jack agrees, as even when Hannibal had come to Jack to ask him to force Will’s resignation from the BAU he had the air of something closer to a teacher correcting an unruly student than that of worried spouse pleading. ‘Or so he’d have us think anyway. I’ve seen what he’s capable of.’  
  
‘Nothing more than what Will is capable of,’ Alana says, quick to defend Hannibal again. ‘They wouldn’t hurt each other, Jack. Not like this. You must know that.’  
  
‘I wouldn’t assume to know anything about either of them right now,’ Jack says to that and Alana’s frown gets deeper.  
  
‘Are you still looking for Will?’  
  
‘I’m not going to stop looking for Will, even if the sun comes down tomorrow,’ Jack says but he knows that’s not what Alana is asking. She’s asking him if he’s looking for body.  
  
The truth is- they are. The river is being dragged today, local sites and farms investigated. Other locations Jack knows from experience to check. Hotels, hostels and nearby derelicts as well. The hospitals are clear so far, as are smaller clinics. Even the Planned Parenthood. No admissions, no sightings, no strange car in the neighbourhood. No purchases in local pharmacies to suggest injury treatment. Nothing to say that wherever Will is, he’s breathing there.  
  
‘Hannibal thought for years that you were going to be the thing that took Will from him,’ Alana says quietly, like she’s afraid Hannibal might show up from nowhere and catch her in the act of speaking for him. ‘He never said but he didn’t have to. That job you had Will doing scared him, in whatever way I think Hannibal can experience such a thing. Maybe it wasn’t obvious to you, but it was there. Even when Will quit, I don’t think Hannibal ever really got over that fear.’  
  
Jack feels responsible enough as it is and doesn’t dare say anything to that. It’s like pulling his own trigger.  
  
‘Hannibal will not forgive you if Will doesn’t come home.’  
  
‘My job is to bring him home, Alana. I can’t be in charge of what drove him out of it.’ Jack takes Alana’s arm gently, squeezes slightly. ‘You can’t be here. There’s an advanced team coming in about half an hour. No civilians.’  
  
‘I’ll go,’ Alana promises and she touches Jack’s hand. ‘Just a few minutes more though. Just in case.’  
  
She walks off into the garden again, squeezing the toy so it squeals. There’s no sign of the dog.

 

* * *

 

  
Jack is in Hannibal’s living room when Beverly walks in. She’s holding a cardboard evidence box and she holds it over her head as another team member slips underneath with their own load. The house is bristling like a beehive, flooding the space with noise. Jack signals her over to the large instrument at the back of the room. A harpsichord, someone said.  
  
They place the box on its closed lid and Beverly says; ‘We opened the present.’  
  
‘What is it?’  
  
‘We’re not entirely sure,’ Beverly says and she opens the box to reveal the smaller, metallic shape of W’s gift inside. The paper has been slit finely, uncoiling and white underneath. Beverly reaches in and takes it out. ‘Lab says it’s standard wheat. You know, like grain? We could track the pesticides, but it’s a big crop and he could’ve gotten it anywhere.’  
  
Jack opens the gift and takes out the small, yellow wheat sheaf that lies inside. He turns it over, like it might somehow reveal something but he’s just baffled. The sheaf is barely larger than Jack’s hand, a decorative thing someone might put in their kitchen. Jack looks at Beverly, who just shrugs.  
  
‘Wheat?’  
  
‘Looks like. There’s a card as well, but it’s just as helpful, I’m afraid.’  
  
Jack looks back into the gift-box and sees a small card at the bottom. It’s heavy, creamy paper and Jack recognises it as Hannibal’s staple stationary. Jack has received dinner invites on the same paper. But it’s Will’s clunky scrawl on it, narrow ballpoint blue and not a trace of Hannibal’s flourish. It reads;  
  
_Why should I blame her that she filled my days,_ _  
__With misery, or that she would have late_ _  
__Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways_  
  
Jack looks between the sheaf and the card. ‘Do we know what this is? Any of it?’  
  
‘Not yet,’ Beverly says and then stifles a yawn. She’s probably slept less than Jack has. And Jack has had a long night. ‘Could be a song, or a poem. Maybe Will made it up himself.’

‘Who’s _she_ then?’

‘Not a lot of gender fluid anthems out there, Jack,’ Beverly says to that and Jack flips the card, too. Nothing on the back. That they can see. Beverly reads his mind. ‘We already x-rayed it. Nothing. Just standard paper and pen.’

‘Why would Will get this for a gift?’ Jack asks, completely perplexed. Not that he can testify to know Will enough either way, not after all this time anyway. ‘It’s not what I think when I think anniversaries. A private joke, maybe?’

‘Yeah. Lecter and Graham are really the couple you think of when you want a laugh,’ Beverly says balefully, looking at the work around them. She taps her foot in Hannibal’s fine wooden floor. ‘Look at this place. There’s nothing of Will here, have you noticed? It’s like it’s not even his home.’

‘There are parts of Will here,’ Jack says and he reaches for the inside pocket of his coat. He pulls out the book, the leather sticking to his latex gloves as he reveals it to Beverly.

Beverly frowns at it. ‘What’s that?’

Jack opens the first page, looks at Will’s handwriting again.

 _My name is Will Graham,_ he’d written there, in January 2013. Jack closes the book and hands it over.

‘A motive.’


	8. Will Graham: March 3rd

**March 3rd, 2014**

  

_It’s 1:40pm. I’m in Wolf Trap, Virginia. And we’ve been caught._

Will doesn’t wait to say hello. The second Hannibal answers the phone, he cuts Hannibal off mid-greeting to say it.

‘They know.’

Hannibal doesn’t reply at first, considering like he is in everything he does and Will is trying not to panic.

‘Jack is on his way,’ Will continues when Hannibal still says nothing. ‘It’s going to be ugly.’

‘I will be careful,’ Hannibal says and Will wants to say he knows that but it doesn’t ease the burst of unease in himself. He wants to tell Hannibal to wait, that Will will come and they can face it together. But Will doesn’t get a chance. There’s a knock on his front door.

‘Someone’s here,’ Will says, not leaving the kitchen yet though he hears the excited yips of the smaller dogs in the living room. It’s someone they know.

‘Are you expecting someone?’

‘No.’

‘I will come to you after Jack.’

Will can’t protest, Hannibal has already hung up. Will could go out the back door, he could run. Wolf Trap wilderness blossoms out around his home and Will could vanish into it easily. But Hannibal is over an hour away and about to face down the barrel of Jack’s retribution and Will knows the fastest way to Hannibal now is _through._

He takes nothing with him, just leaves the phone on the counter and walks through the house. Straight down the hall, the front door stands and Will can see who’s waiting for him through the glass and screen.

Alana Bloom is standing on his porch. She looks normal, which is to say she looks beautiful. Her coat is a pale blue and she looks like spring, with pink cheeks and bright heels. Will looks between her lovely face and the plastic bodega bag she’s got in one hand. He opens the front door, netted screen all that’s between them now. She smiles at him.

‘I take it I’m not who you were expecting.’

‘I wasn’t expecting anyone.’

‘Then I’m definitely not who you were expecting,’ Alana says and she lifts the bag. It’s heavy and glass clinks inside of it. ‘I have beer.’

‘How generous,’ Will says because it is and he steps aside, pushing open the screen door as he does. A tide of furry flurry scurries out, nails scratching and only half interested in Alana as she smiles down at the dogs. The prospect of a run is too great and she is soon left in preference for it. She steps in and Will knows that everything else is about to start.

They walk all the way through to the kitchen and she takes out two bottles of a German beer Will doesn’t recognise. They’re tall, brown glass and Will goes for the bottle opener in one of his drawers, his back to Alana where she stands by the one stool at the island. She takes off her coat and it feels like chess.

‘I heard a rumour today.’

‘Never struck me as one for gossip,’ Will says, very conscious of himself and even more so of Alana watching him. He takes too long for the bottle opener, pretending to look for it though it stares right up at him. ‘I think you’re more for making your own decisions on things.’

‘That’s what I’m aiming to do,’ Alana answers breezily and Will can’t pretend any longer. He takes the bottle opener and faces her.

‘Who told you?’

‘Jack. He saw the post before I did. He’s not happy.’

‘Not surprising anyone with that,’ Will says and he hands the bottle opener over to her. His hands are shaking and Alana takes it with no comment, though her finger lingers on Will’s for a moment. Her hands are warm. ‘What about you? What do you think?

Alana doesn’t answer and opens the bottles. They hiss and pop, foaming slightly but the neck is too long for anything to spill. She inclines her head behind her.

‘Let’s sit in the living room. I won’t have you standing in your own kitchen.’

Will doesn’t point out that he’d much rather stand because he’s sure she knows that. Alana takes both bottles and leads them back, sitting in one chair at the fireplace and watches Will calmly. When the dogs are called back, she hands Will a bottle.

‘So. Hannibal.’

Will sits and takes a long sip of his beer. Alana doesn’t even lift hers, just holds it on her lap like she would anything.

‘Were you ever going to tell us?’

‘Define _us.’_

‘Me.’

‘Maybe,’ Will says truthfully, starting to pick at the foil left on the neck of the bottle. ‘There never seemed to be the right moment.’

‘How long has it been going on?’ Alana asks, tucking long hair behind her ear. Will thinks of Hannibal’s hands on his wrists and feels his face heat light up.

‘July,’ Will says, biting the bullet and Alana freezes. She blinks once or twice, but is otherwise entirely still and Will knows she’s not happy. He adds, awkwardly: ‘Or August. More or less.’

‘July,’ she repeats quietly. Now, she reaches for the beer. ‘That’s almost a year.’

‘Not quite that long,’ Will says, rubbing at his neck. He was so worried earlier about how angry Jack most certainly is that Will hadn’t seen this coming until now it’s too late. Now it’s sitting in his living room, drinking beer and he’s really thinking he should’ve bolted out of the back door afterall.

‘You’ve been seeing Hannibal same as always. I don’t think anyone would’ve guessed,’ Alana pointedly doesn’t ask and Will doesn’t answer either. Will isn’t sure where to put the awkwardness of this conversation as _sorry_ just isn’t showing up to the party it seems. Because Will is not sorry.

‘I didn’t see any point in stopping. We suit each other, he’s a good therapist.’

‘I think anyone would question your suitability right now.’

‘You’re angry.’

‘With you? No,’ Alana says, sipping her beer.

‘It’s not Hannibal’s fault,’ Will says but Alana’s look quells him instantly. She’s so expressive and perhaps Will’s been spending too much time with Hannibal, because her soft features seem almost too much in comparison.

‘He’s your therapist,’ Alana says firmly, taking another sip. She taps the bottle once with a long, white finger. ‘He has a responsibility. Had a responsibility.’

‘He still has responsibility,’ Will says to that, tilting his bottle one way and then the other to feel the weight of it. When he was a cop, on of the first murders he was called to was a bottle stabbing. ‘It’s just alternating now.’

‘Is that what you’d have me think?’ Alana asks and Will is thrown by that.

‘Are you implying that isn’t true?’ Will asks and Alana tilts her chin, not quite shaking her head.

‘Not at all. I suspect it’s quite true,’ she says and she finally takes a sip of her beer. Will waits. ‘Hannibal has always been particularly skilled in the art of alternating responsibility.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Will says, blurting it out really and feeling a strong compulsion to control the narrative here. Alana gives him a sympathetic look.

‘I didn’t say it was fair,’ she says graciously, settling back a bit more in the chair and Lady shuffles her white fluffy face at Alana’s feet. ‘You wanted to protect him.’

Will squirms, embarrassed despite it being true. ‘I didn’t do a very good job of it.’

‘You can’t be held responsible for what Freddie Lounds posts.’

‘I can if it’s true.’

‘And is it?’ Alana asks, head tilting. ‘Is it true?’

‘The sleeping with Hannibal part or the manipulating Hannibal into it so he’ll keep Jack informed of my apparent sanity? Maybe I’m after his money,’ Will says, even a snaps a little because he’s offended Alana would even ask him that. But she doesn’t flinch. Alana came for a fight it seems and she is unafraid of Will’s hurt feelings.

‘I don’t think you’re after Hannibal’s money,’ Alana says blithely and somehow hearing her say it nettles more. Will drums his fingers against his bottle. ‘I don’t think you’re using him to stay working for Jack either. I think there are very few people who could say what you look for and Freddie Lounds certainly isn’t one of them.’

‘What do you think I’m looking for?’ Will sips his beer and doesn’t taste it. Hannibal makes his own and Will doesn’t care much for that either. He prefers the wine, much to Hannibal’s quiet amusement.

‘Are you looking for something?’

‘You’re fishing.’

‘What gave me away?’ Alana asks with a smile and despite the Gordian knot in Will’s chest, he finds himself holding a smile back. Alana always inspires response. It’s why she’d be a terrible therapist for him.

‘Sometimes things just are,’ Will says with a shrug, feigning ease. It never comes to him as well as it does to Hannibal. Will tries to fill out Hannibal’s expression like a suit that’s too big. His shoulders hunch. ‘There’s not always a beginning. Or an end.’

‘For most people those things are inevitable,’ Alana says, sounding wise and she drinks more beer. ‘We all look for something in the people we feel support us, it’s only natural. Seems unfair to expect otherwise.’

‘You’re not talking about me,’ Will says, the realisation blooming and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

Alana crosses her legs. ‘I’m talking about part of you.’

‘The part Hannibal wants.’

‘Is that what you think of it?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think I should’ve brought more beer,’ Alana says lightly but Will doesn’t laugh. He can just about make out the shape of this conversation and his skins crawls with insult already.

‘You’re not usually this careful,’ Will says and he swirls his beer again. He’s really not thirsty. ‘Worried I’ll bite?’

‘No,’ Alana replies genuinely. ‘But I am worried about my own teeth. So to speak.’

Will takes a long drink. The dogs watch the progress of the bottle like it might suddenly drop with a bone. Will looks at the fireplace. The wall he never repainted. The refilled plaster sits there like a confession.

‘Your empathy makes you unique, Will,’ Alana says eventually and it sounds like something that’s meant kindly, but Alana does not seem to be in a forgiving mood. ‘It also makes you-’

Alana stops herself. Will waits and stares her down, breathing hard through his nose. She sips her beer again and Will ignores his. If she’s going to say it, he wants her to say it to his face. He’s not willing to help her around it, but when Alana meets his eye something rises up without meaning. Hannibal always scolds him for his righteousness.

‘Are you saying I’m not someone Hannibal might want to be with?’ Will asks, mind scattering like water dropped in a skillet. It sizzles with the dark, horrible things that lurk there.

‘I’m saying you’re exactly someone Hannibal would want to be with. Or that you could be, if you wanted to. Do you want that?’

‘Well, as someone said, I’m almost a year in.’

‘That’s not an answer,’ Alana says. More beer. Will wants to say more, but he mirrors her anyway. ‘I don’t think Hannibal has ever had an attachment that lasted so long. Not that I’ve seen, anyway. He must be more certain than you give this relationship credit for.’

Will tries not to shrink at the word _attachment._ He fails and Alana is quick to spot it, the way he flinches in on himself. He answers quietly.

‘It’s… complicated.’

‘I don’t doubt that,’ Alana says and looks over to the fireplace. She stares at the hole he made as long ago and it’s an admission of something Will knows Hannibal won’t appreciate it. Not that Hannibal ever asks. ‘You seem like someone who’d bring that with you into any relationship. Hannibal must’ve been very sure this was a decision he wanted to make.’

Will remembers that to be true, ultimately, but can’t stop himself from trying to defend Hannibal anyway. ‘It was a joint effort.’

‘I’m sure you think that,’ Alana says to that and Will seizes in his chair. His grip tightens on the bottle.

‘This isn’t some graduate affair. I know what I’m doing and I’m not his student.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘I can make my own decisions,’ Will retorts and Alana raises her eyebrows.

‘And I suppose you were the one who decided not to tell anyone?’

Will flushes, feeling caught and not sure why. ‘Are you accusing Hannibal of something?’

‘Is there something to accuse him of?’

‘No. I just made a choice. He’s my choice. And he didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘Then I don’t see why you’d have him hide it.’  

‘I was worried,’ Will says and he looks at his own fingers. Picks at the foil. ‘I am worried. I don’t know what it is, so I didn’t want anyone else to know either.’

‘Long time to stumble through something without knowing where it’ll end up.’

Will knows that’s a trap and he refuses to spring it.

‘Just say it, Alana. Otherwise we’re going to run out of beer and you’ll have driven all the way out here for nothing.’

‘Fine,’ Alana says and she bends to put the beer on the floor. She sits straight, hands on either arm of the chair in a bizarre mirror of how Hannibal might sit. ‘I think you’re behaving irrationally.’

‘Is that your professional opinion?’

‘It’s my opinion as your friend,’ Alana says firmly. ‘I care for you, Will. But I also think you’re…’ Alana pauses, licks her lips warily. ‘I think you’re unstable.’

Will recoils. He can’t help it and he looks away from Alana’s face that bleeds sympathy like a wound- which is even worse and Will wants to shut the door on it.

‘Well. Don’t mince your words, I guess.’  
  
‘You need a structure in your life that will not only help you, but that you will allow to help you,’ Alana continues and she’s so calm. So beautiful. So perfectly composed and Will just feels like he’s tearing at his seams by sheer repulsion to it all of a sudden. ‘You won’t let Hannibal help you and I don't believe that he can't see that.’  
  
That hits Will much closer to the bone than he wants to admit. ‘You don’t know that.’  
  
‘He can’t be objective about you, Will and you know it. It’s dangerous. This relationship you’re having is dangerous.’ Alana sounds the closest to angry Will has ever seen her. ‘You’re being reckless. And maybe if it was just you I could do my best to look away, but it’s not just you.’

‘And it’s not you at all. So forgive me if I’m rude here, but it’s really none of your business.’

Alana sits up straighter like this may help her. ‘I don’t think Hannibal is good for you.’

‘I wasn’t good for you,’ Will says and it’s mean, cruel perhaps and he can see it in the way her face collapses. Just for a moment but with a face like Alana’s it floods the room. Will can’t stop himself though. ‘Rethinking your taste now that teacher has had a bite?’

‘That’s not fair,’ Alana says, wounded and Will sighs heavily, ashamed. He rubs at his face as she continues; ‘But I think I’d like to know what reason Hannibal has for doing this that’s better than my reason for not.’  
  
‘It’s different. Hannibal is- he’s different.’ Will pushes at his hair. It’s getting long. ‘I didn’t take you as the jealous type. You don’t tend to lash out.’  
  
‘I’m not jealous,’ Alana says too lightly to be genuine. ‘And I’m not here to attack you.’

‘No. You’re just here to fight Hannibal’s battle for him. Or fight him himself, if necessary. Right?’

‘I’m not fighting anyone’s battles,’ Alana snaps before deflating instantly like it caught even her by surprise. ‘Or not exactly that. But he was your therapist-’

‘He is my therapist.’

‘-And neither of you can have a healthy balance with that hanging over you,’ Alana continues like Will hasn’t spoken. ‘It’s destructive. Or if it isn’t now it will be.’

‘Maybe we want destructive,’ Will says and Alana frowns. Wrong thing to say.

‘Is that what you think Hannibal wants?’

‘You’re the one implying I’m an expert in what Hannibal wants,’ Will counters and he takes another swig. The beer is going warm and not even half way through. ‘How else would I be able to manipulate him into it?’  
  
Will would laugh at Alana thinking Hannibal is the kind of man to be manipulated into anything, if this weren’t so terrible. But it’s pretty fucking terrible.  
  
‘This is why I didn’t want anyone to know,’ Will says and it sounds petulant. Perhaps it is, but it’s still true. 'Perception warps narrative.'  
  
Alana huffs loudly.  
  
‘You didn’t want Jack to know because he’ll try to make you see someone else. You didn’t want me to know because- well, why?’ Alana asks and Will can feel the hurt that bleeds from her so vividly he has to look away. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you have Hannibal lie for you?’  
  
‘You don’t think he lied for me,’ Will replies, because he’s beginning to see the picture of this jigsaw now the sharp corners are filled in and it's an ugly one. Alana licks her lips.  
  
‘I don’t know what to think.’  
  
Will puts his beer on the coffee-table, leaning forward and doing his best to keep Alana’s gaze. It’s difficult, but he manages. ‘You think someone has behaved poorly here.’  
  
‘I know someone has,’ Alana says firmly. She brings her hands together, links the fingers and she looks like she’s holding on very tightly. ‘I guess I’m just trying to follow the pattern of the _alternating_ responsibility.’  
  
‘I can’t give you back who you thought Hannibal was,’ Will says and Alana opens her mouth, but says nothing. Perturbed, as most people are, when Will gets right to the heart of it. ‘Nothing I say will undo it either. And I’m not going to stop.’  
  
‘Why not?’ Alana asks, quieter.  
  
‘I don’t know,’ Will answers honestly. ‘I just know that I won’t give it up.’  
  
Alana seems to consider this for a moment, seems to be reconstructing her next argument but Will is already finished. He stands, startles her slightly as he does so quickly. He waves towards the door.  
  
‘Hannibal is coming,’ Will says and Alana looks over her shoulder, as though Hannibal might’ve somehow manifested. ‘He’ll be here soon and I’d like you gone.’  
  
Alana looks back at him, eyes anxiously roaming over his face and Will looks down at the floor. ‘How long would you like me to be gone?’  
  
‘Until you decide,’ Will says, but he gestures again. ‘One way or another.’  
  
‘What am I deciding?’  
  
‘Your responsibility,’ Will says and Alana doesn’t answer that. She swallows slowly before standing, leaving her beer behind on the floor. Not even a third of it drank. ‘Please, Alana.’  
  
Alana leaves, lingering for a moment at the door like she might say something else but she doesn’t. She walks away without a goodbye and Will knows this isn’t the end of it, but it’s the end of it for now. When Hannibal arrives in the evening, Will is so desperate to see him it feels like it runs off him like sweat.  
  
Hannibal notices immediately, walking in the front and looking over to where Will is sitting, legs bent and feet on the edge of the chair. He frowns. ‘What has happened?’  
  
‘Asides from the obvious?’  
  
‘Someone was here.’  
  
‘Alana,’ Will says and Hannibal closes the door. He walks straight over, not even taking off his coat and the gratitude Will feels for even that expands. Pushes his rib cage out as he swells with it and Hannibal has a hand in his hair. ‘She’s not happy.’  
  
‘Neither is Jack.’  
  
‘Are you in trouble?’  
  
‘Officially? No,’ Hannibal answers and Will closes his eyes and leans his head into Hannibal’s hand. ‘I’m sorry I could not have been here sooner.’  
  
‘She came the same time Jack was with you.’  
  
‘Divide and conquer, it seems.’  
  
‘Jokes on them, I guess,’ Will says and Hannibal moves. When Will opens his eyes again, Hannibal is kneeling before him. ‘Unless you’ve changed your mind?’  
  
‘If anyone is likely to change their mind it’s you,’ Hannibal says and Will holds the wrist of the hand Hannibal has out. ‘Can’t keep a secret once it’s out.’  
  
‘Tough. Keeping you anyway,’ Will says and Hannibal smiles, in that he way he usually does. Most people wouldn’t call it one but Will does, because Will can feel it. It’s like a touch, the soft look Hannibal has on his face right now. ‘Can you stay tonight?’  
  
‘I will need to leave early for an appointment, but yes. I can stay.’  
  
‘Good,’ Will says and he tugs Hannibal’s wrist, guiding him up. Hannibal kisses Will and Will unfurls, drops his legs and opens them for Hannibal to fit inside. ‘I’m making the decision for you anyway. I owe you for one.’  
  
‘What is your decision?’ Hannibal asks, both hands now coming down to run up Will’s thighs. Spreading him wider.  
  
‘You decided that we start this,’ Will says, heat pooling thick and narrow between his legs. ‘So I’m claiming the decision to end it. One for one. Quid pro quo. Got it?’  
  
‘Quid pro quo,’ Hannibal concedes and he seals it with a kiss.

 

* * *

 

The next day, when Will returns from the creek, with two large bass over a shoulder, he sees the Bentley parked outside. Will goes in through the front door to find Hannibal standing by his desk, overlooking the lures with a look of deep concentration. Never a good sign when Hannibal looks like that- usually means Will is going to have to fetch the toolbox or pour a drink. And not always in that order.

‘What are you doing back here?’ he asks Hannibal as he puts his fishing tack down, carefully balancing the fish so as not to lose them to snuffling noses that crowd him with interest.

‘I left something here I shouldn’t have,’ Hannibal answers, before pulling a strange face. ‘Also I’m afraid in admiring one of your lures I seem to have undone one.’  
  
Will walks over to see the red feather of the lure he’d been working on has fallen loose, the string unravelling. He snorts to himself. Who would’ve guessed Hannibal to be so clumsy. He’s probably embarrassed. Will holds onto it like it’s something warm in his hands. He leans forward, presses his lips just off Hannibal’s own.  
  
‘It wasn’t glued yet, I can fix it. Are you staying for dinner?’  
  
‘If you’ll have me.’  
  
‘Sure. Can you make pie dough?’  
  
‘Shortcrust or puff?’  
  
‘Already too much for me to follow,’ Will laughs, leading the way through to the kitchen. ‘Just come make a fish pie like the housewife I never wanted and I’ll forgive you the lure.’  
  
Hannibal does as he’s bid, carefully leaving his suit jacket behind him in the living room as he follows Will to the kitchen. Hannibal takes what he needs first and uses the extended counter and Will prepares the fish on the other in front of the window. They fall into silence, comfortable and familiar as they work.  
  
When the fish is cut, the blood pours and pours and pours. Will watches it as it tips over the edge of the counter and spills at his feet. It looks black, like paint, and he sees someone looking back at him through the sheen. Will jumps back.  
  
‘Are you alright?’ Hannibal asks, concerned and he looks over Will’s shoulder. Will can’t hide the way his breath shakes, but he tries and Hannibal seems to be quietly debating with himself whether to let Will succeed or not. ‘Will?’  
  
‘Fine. It’s fine. Thought I saw something.’  
  
‘Outside?’  
  
Will looks straight out the kitchen window. It’s dark now and he can’t see anything with the kitchen light. The whole window reflects like a mirror and Will only sees himself staring back. Will glances down. He hasn’t even started to cut the fish yet. No blood, no one lurking beneath a red surface. Will feels something come undone inside.  
  
‘Yeah. Must’ve been a coyote,’ Will says and he knows Hannibal doesn’t believe him, but Hannibal doesn’t press. Hannibal doesn’t press half as much as he used to, Will’s noticed. Will knows why and Alana’s words come back to him. He shrugs, as though to physically shake off her accusation. ‘Can I ask you something?’  
  
‘Always, Will.’

‘What does love look like to you?’ Will asks, turning the knife. He can see his reflection in it, accordion pressed through the mottled black and steel.

‘Love in itself or my love for you?’ Hannibal asks, sifting flour into a bowl.

Will drops the knife. Hannibal does not comment on it as Will struggles to swallow around the words that suddenly stick in his throat. ‘You haven’t said that before.’

‘Neither have you.’

‘I didn’t think it was something you’d want to hear.’

‘Implying to me that you’ve thought it and elected not to say it,’ Hannibal says and Will stares firmly down at the fish he’s not gutting. ‘You don’t have to admit anything to me, Will. This is enough.’

‘What if I wanted to admit it?’

‘Then admit it when you are ready, not when you feel I’ve set a precedent,’ Hannibal says before adding: ‘The fish, Will.’

Will picks up the knife again, starts to slice at the gills and the fish is bruising where he doesn’t press the knife down hard enough, scales splintering. Will’s heart is racing, tap dance beat right through his chest. He wants to say more, but he can’t quite bring himself to. Hannibal seems two steps ahead, as alway.  
  
‘You don’t need to say anything else, Will,’ Hannibal says gently, washing his hands in the sink to chill them for kneading. Will tightens his grip on the knife. He closes his eyes and sees blood. He sees a knife tearing Hannibal’s throat open and Will wonders how hot the blood would be, if it hit Will first.  
  
Hannibal reaches back into the bowl he has, starts to knead and the noise shakes Will back to himself. He feels sick.

‘I’d like to know what you think, anyway. If you’d be willing to tell me,’ Will continues shakily, bringing the knife right down the fish’s centre. It parts like a mouth.

‘Do you want to know what I see so you can try and protect yourself better?’

‘Maybe I want to protect you.’

‘Then it is already too late,’ Hannibal says and the glass bowl he’s mixing the dough in scrapes along the countertop slightly. Hannibal lost his grip on it there, just for a second and that second fits Will, it seems.  
  
‘Do you regret that?’  
  
‘Not as much as I would have thought before finding myself here,’ Hannibal says and Will thinks he knows what he means. Despite everything, Will can never say of Hannibal for certain. ‘Do you have regrets, Will?’  
  
‘Regret isn’t the right word.’ Will stares down at the fish, at where it opens along the cut. ‘I feel… culpable.’  
  
‘I am not your victim, Will.’  
  
‘Aren’t you?’ Will asks, pleads really and Will freezes, holds his breath. ‘Won’t you?’  
  
Will looks up to see his reflection in the black of the window. Hannibal is behind him, his back turned. He moves a white shadow there- blurred and brilliant. He can’t see Hannibal’s face clearly in the reflection when Hannibal turns.  
  
Hannibal steps up behind Will’s back. The window makes it look like they’re underwater, merging at the edges and Will sinks against Hannibal when Hannibal wraps his arms around him. Hannibal has one around Will’s waist, a steady anchor and the other goes along Will’s right arm. Up to his wrist, over his hand- Hannibal holds the knife through Will’s fingers with butter-slick skin.  
  
‘You’re so porous,’ Hannibal says, low and even. Like a lullaby and Will closes his eyes, lets his head rest against Hannibal’s cheek. ‘Sometimes I wonder if you will come apart in my hands- you absorb so much and every time, you bear new weight and your foundations crumble.’  
  
‘Not all of them.’  
  
‘No,’ Hannibal says, a touch firmly and his grip tightens. ‘Not all of them.’  
  
Hannibal lifts Will’s hand and the knife flashes white as it catches the light, rising. Will opens his eyes and sees himself, mirror-flipped, in the window as Hannibal raises their hands. The knife follows and Will’s heart hammers, thundering in his chest until Hannibal stops. The knife hovers over Will’s throat, a straight line.  
  
Garret Jacob-Hobbs held Abigail like this the day he decided he wanted to murder her because he loved her too much. Will uses his other hand to grip the counter, to hold himself up as his knees start turn against him. Hannibal’s arm is iron against his stomach, pinning Will to Hannibal’s broad chest.  
  
‘Is this what love looks like to you?’ Will asks, ragged and he thinks when he swallows he can feel the edge of the knife it’s so close.  
  
‘It’s what it looks like to you.’  
  
Will winces for the truth of it. ‘What’s in me can’t be helped, I guess.’  
  
‘It’s my job to help you,’ Hannibal says and Will shakes his head slightly.  
  
‘As my psychiatrist, or as someone who loves me?’  
  
‘Do you think I love you?’  
  
‘I think you could destroy me, if you wanted to.’  
  
‘Love doesn’t have to be destructive, Will,’ Hannibal says, his words warm on Will’s ear.  
  
‘What else can it be?’  
  
‘Perhaps we can never truly see someone for who are they until we love them.’ Hannibal hasn’t moved the knife and Will has the vivid image of Hannibal plunging it into his neck. It makes Will feel... seen. ‘Is it destruction, or simply recognition?’  
  
‘I don’t recognise myself in you.’  
  
‘Don’t you?’ Hannibal says and he lowers Will’s hand, lowers the knife and Will collapses. He falls forward and Hannibal releases his hand to hold Will with both of his, to hold Will up and against him in an embrace. When Hannibal’s hand settles on the base of Will’s neck, Will thinks he doesn’t want his breath to be anywhere but in the safety of Hannibal’s hand.  
  
‘If you knew me before you would’ve run,’ Will says, only half joking. Hannibal kisses the shell of his ear, lower again and Will tilts his head to let him. ‘And you never answered my question.’  
  
‘What does love look like?’  
  
‘Do you feel it?’ Will specifies, blindly and he goes still, the realisation of how cruel a question that likely is sinking down over him.  
  
Hannibal doesn’t answer for what feels like a long time and Will begins to think Hannibal won’t answer at all. Will deserves it- has pushed at something still open and he panics, wondering if he’s spoiled it. He’s gone too far too fast with this thing between them and his hands shake. He puts down the knife just as Hannibal speaks.  
  
‘I like to think I hear it, more than anything,’ Hannibal finally says. ‘I listen to you walk in my home. I listen to your breath in my bed, in my body. Your words in my ears.’ Hannibal turns his face, his nose in Will’s hair and breathes. ‘In my office, you walk the library. I listen to your footsteps above me. Sometimes, I touch the pillars, to see if I can feel how you move. And I spend the quiet hours you are not there waiting to hear you again.'  
  
Will raises a hand and touches his own sternum as if he might touch what’s grown there, within. A bulbous, spreading thing with roots. Will wants it on his fingers, wants to hold it in his hand.  
  
‘And that’s enough?’  
  
‘It’s more than I’ve given anyone,’ Hannibal says to him. ‘More than I think I will ever give again.’  
  
Will believes him. He turns in Hannibal’s arms, reaches up and holds Hannibal’s face with both hands. When Will kisses him, Hannibal reacts the same way he always does. He goes still, so very still as though he may scare Will off by moving too suddenly. He hands go along Will’s waist, hook there and bring them closer.  
  
‘Don’t destroy me,’ Will says, kisses Hannibal again. Hannibal’s hand is a hard, strained press against Will’s back as though Will is still too far away though they are pressed together.  
  
‘I don’t think what’s inside of you can be unmade,’ Hannibal replies and Will doesn’t get the chance to answer, but he he wonders as Hannibal’s mouth moves against his, if Hannibal would try anyway.  
  
Hannibal puts the dough in the fridge to chill and Will completely neglects the fish. Hannibal frowns, but doesn’t comment and Will leads him back to the living room, to their bed.  
  
Will definitely does damage in how quickly he undresses Hannibal. But Will can’t stop moving forward, can’t stop kissing and biting and scratching. Will distracts himself with every part of Hannibal he knows and every part he re-learns, lying on his back and running fingers down the curve of Hannibal’s spine as Hannibal pushes his cock inside of him.  
  
Will tilts his head back, groans low and needy as Hannibal moves within him. He’s pinned beneath Hannibal’s weight, is surrounded by the scent of him and Will wants to soak in it. He holds onto the back of Hannibal’s neck and the cheap bedsheets as Hannibal fucks him, heart constricting like an hourglass from where the truth pours through.  
  
Hannibal loves him. It’s the most careless Will’s ever been.


	9. Freddie Lounds: The Night Of (Again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warnings:** Discussions of domestic abuse and domestic financial abuse.

**The Night Of (Again)**

  
  
Freddie is one hundred and ten percent sure she knows what’s happened to Will Graham.  
  
She’s hovering close by, in a car and watching the federal CSI team leave the house. They are laden with boxes and evidence bags- all clutched in their white gloved fingers. No one is looking for her or any press- not yet. The FBI hasn’t even been informed officially. Just good old Jack taking the reins in typical fashion. She’s being careful with her camera anyway, balancing a sheet of card above the lense to prevent glare.  
  
She snaps a few photos of Beverly Katz leaving the house where the doors stand open. Freddie has never been in that house, despite her best efforts, but things are different because tonight- tonight- Freddie has a key.

Now tucked safely in her pocket and hooked onto a small strip she sewed in there herself so it would never wander, Freddie has a key to the backdoor of Will Graham’s house.

Well, technically Doctor Hannibal Lecter’s house. Freddie has seen the deed. Now that had been hard. But there had been no way in Virginian hell back then that Freddie was going to let Will Graham vanish into polite Baltimore society, ensconced away behind Hannibal Lecter’s gilded doors. If the profiler had sold out killers for caviar, then Freddie and her readers only deserved to know.  
  
But that was then, and this is now and Freddie is waiting for her chance to find out the next part of the Will Graham story. The camera clicks away as more familiar faces enter the street, heading towards the vans that surround the sidewalk at the front of the house.

(For as much as the house cost, it could’ve at least come with a driveway, Freddie feels).  
  
Freddie feels a small pang of sympathy, despite herself. She’s been waiting for this, but sort of the way doomsday preppers are waiting for a meteor. She has everything ready but now that’s it happening… well, hardly matters, she supposes. It’s happening regardless how she feels about it.

But Graham had looked like shit last time she saw him.

‘You should know someone will be checking in on me,’ she’d told Graham then, meeting him along the orange water of Chesapeake Bay.

Walking in heels that clipped on one of the old piers on the Northern end, half of it near-lost to the tide from age, Freddie met with him just over a month ago. The sun had been setting in a winter-white sky.

Graham had been standing at the end, hair long and unkempt. He’d looked so thin, skeletal really since Freddie had last seen him in person and looking at him then had made her stomach turn. How the mighty had fallen, it seemed.

‘If someone took you I can promise you they’d bring you back twice as fast once you opened your mouth,’ Graham had said as she got close, looking at her. She remembers, especially now, how hollow he’d looked. ‘You’re in no danger from me.’

‘Forgive me if I don’t take the chance. What do you want, Graham?’

‘You protect your sources,’ Graham said, throwing Freddie off. She’d had her grip tight on her phone in one pocket- and her taser in the other. ‘Even you have a creed of some sort, right?’

‘We all have our code of principles,’ Freddie conceded, taking a slight step back. Graham hadn’t moved. ‘Do you need protection, Graham?’

Graham had looked away, bright eyes down on the water. Watching the drifting debris as it simmered yellow in the sunset. ‘I need you to keep a secret until you can’t.’  
  
‘What does that mean?’  
  
‘I think someday Jack Crawford is going to ask you a question about me and I want you to answer it.’  
  
Graham had put his hands in his pockets, wind blowing through his hair. He had been shivering with the winter cold that had begun to creep.  
  
‘And I want to give you something. A fail safe.’

‘What do you need a fail safe for?’ Freddie asked him.

‘Maybe nothing,’ Graham said, brushing his hair out of his face. His breath had billowed white and cloud like in the air. ‘But that’s why it’s a fail safe.’

‘And you called me.’ Freddie had been so suspicious, tense on her feet in case Graham suddenly changed his stance. As it had been, she could’ve had more weight to toss him than viceversa. ‘Got no friends to lean on?’

‘It has to be you,’ Graham said and he’d sounded displeased by it, which from Graham Freddie had taken as a compliment. She didn’t fancy being something that pleased him. ‘You’re the only one who’d do it.’

‘And what is it, exactly, you want me doing?’

‘Pushing,’ Graham had answered. ‘That’s what you do best. You’d push something until it breaks. You pushed me.’ He’d looked away with a pained expression. ‘You pushed Abigail.’

‘Don’t put that on me,’ Freddie had snapped and Graham still hadn’t looked at her. ‘I think we both know who’s to blame for what happened.’

‘Doesn’t matter now either way,’ Graham said and he had twisted his mouth- almost a smile.

Graham had taken something out of his pocket then, held it across the pier towards her. Freddie had jumped at the movement, thumbing the trigger of her taser. The key had been anti-climatic.

Freddie had frowned at it. ‘What’s this?’

‘The key to our back porch.’

‘And you’re giving me this- why?’

‘There may be a night the police come to the house,’ Graham had said, walking up along the pier. Freddie had stayed firm, refusing to let him see how her skin wrinkled with goosebumping nervousness at his closeness. ‘Unlock the door. Get inside.’

‘Why?’ Freddie had asked then, feeling out of her depth despite herself.

Freddie is swimming clear now.  
  
Hannibal Lecter exits the house and Freddie automatically leans forward, increases the zoom. Through the expense of the camera, she can practically see Lecter’s individually manicured eyebrows. She snaps a few photos of his blank expression, trying to comprise a headline as he walks down his own front steps. She takes another of Alana Bloom behind him, just to be fair, but all Freddie can see is Lecter’s face.  
  
_So much for grieving,_ Freddie thinks of the good doctor standing impassively as Bloom flitters around him like tiny bird. Freddie grips the camera, hears the plastic squeak against her gloves. She never liked Lecter anyway, but now Freddie feels justification.  Pretty unfortunate justification- but right is right. Lecter watches the CSI team, hands down at his sides. Shame about the gloves, Freddie desperately wants to see the ring.  
  
Bloom leads Lecter away from the house, down the street to where her car is. Freddie takes a few more of them leaving, of Lecter insisting on helping Bloom into the car. _How chivalrous,_ Freddie thinks making a mental note of it. Can’t forget a thing like manners just because your husband’s missing, after all.  
  
And Will must be missing, because there’s no coroner. No ambulance. A crime scene with no body means Freddie has more to do than usual, has to run just that little faster. But this time she’s had help. Freddie puts down the camera as Jack exits the house, eyes tracking down where Bloom’s car drives off. Freddie pulls out her own phone and she watches Jack answer her from the safety of her car.  
  
‘This number is for emergencies only, Miss Lounds,’ Jack snaps, already terse and Freddie makes a loud _tsk_ down the receiver.  
  
‘You wouldn’t consider this an emergency?’  
  
‘That heavily depends on what this is.’  
  
‘Will Graham,’ Freddie says and she watches as Jack turns on the spot, looking for her. He won’t spot her; she’s rented this car specifically. Outrageously more expensive than her own, tinted windows. She blends right in and she watches with satisfaction as Jack looks right over her. ‘Getting careless with another protégé, Agent Crawford?’  
  
‘Goodnight, Miss Lounds.’ Jack goes to hang up but Freddie is too quick.  
  
‘I have a lead!’ she says, sing-song with excitement. After all, Will gave it to her special so even now she knows he probably wouldn’t mind. Or if he would, he at least would have no one else to blame but himself. Jack steps away from the house, into the garden.  
  
‘How can you have a lead for a crime barely reported?’ he asks and Freddie smiles, knowing she’s got him.  
  
‘You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.’  
  
Jack says nothing for a long while, seemingly considering his options. Freddie doesn’t care about his other options. He’ll use what she has because it’s Will.  
  
‘I won’t be available tonight,’ Jack eventually says and Freddie knew that but feigns impatience anyway to wet Jack’s beak.

She’s not an idiot. She knows where Bloom’s car is driving and if she didn’t have the job she has now, Freddie would’ve followed them to the station and gotten a few more photos. As it is though…

‘Does the morning suit?’  
  
‘I’m nothing if not accommodating, Mister Guru,’ Freddie chimes back and this time Jack really does hang up. Doesn’t matter, she’s got her foot in the door of Jack’s investigation and that’s what’s important. If ever one needed her at the front of it, it’s this one.  
  
She watches as Jack heads away to his own SUV and settles in to wait. It’ll be a long one; the CSI team is going back into the house now to start a second sweep. Time to pull down books from shelves, peel up floorboards. If there’s blood on those floorboards Freddie wants one for herself.  
  
But they’re hours away from that yet. A solid six or seven, because no way is anyone going to pull an all-nighter without an official report called in to make them. And Freddie knows Jack enough by now to know Jack is going to postpone letting Quantico know they’re favourite resident cuckoo has been stolen from the nest until he has to. Because Jack wants Lecter alone in a room almost as much as Freddie does.  
  
Freddie opens Twitter and fires out a quick sound-off. Freddie doesn’t have to jump the ropes Jack Crawford does and she’s won’t be the only one circling this story soon.  
  
_ANNIVERSARY ATTACK! FBI’S PET KILLER MISSING: Will Graham missing from mansion in Baltimore. FBI at the scene before report even filed. Husband taken for questioning at station. Await further updates!_  
  
If Jack wants to geo-tag her he’ll be pissed, but Jack probably knows she’s nearby already. The CSI are setting up lights in the garden now, trying to get photos and work done before the snow covers anything else up.

Freddie watches as she reads an article of Graham’s she’s printed out herself, sketching out small copy for the article she’ll post in the morning on a legal pad. CSI may not be up all night, but Freddie will. She always prides herself on her conviction. She notes when they take things out of the house, snaps a photo that’ll make the timeline she’ll map out between Graham’s paragraphs on why shootings are impersonal.  
  
She spies Zeller, zooms in a little closer. He’s holding what looks like a gym bag. Or getaway bag.  
  
Freddie waits for close to five hours before the CSI team start to wrap up. The notepad is full, article practically finished save for the brackets she’s left to fill in with information once she gets it and she manages her twitter feed as the night-owl readers trend #WillGraham. Graham’s paper is well and truly read. Back and forth.

(He makes a good if unfortunate point. Guns probably are impersonal).  
  
Freddie flicks through her phone as the CSI team climb back into their vans. A police guard has arrived in the interim, and they now set themselves up at the front door. She waits for the road to clear of FBI, the electric clock on the car saying it’s just coming to four in the morning. CSI has to change guard and Jack will have to contact Quantico once they open. Freddie has three hours if she’s lucky.  
  
If.  
  
Freddie crawls to the backseat of the car, grabs her bag and slips out of the backseat door against the curb. She goes around the back of the car, keeps low and uses the other parked vehicles to help her walk down the street. The police aren’t looking, too busy talking to each other at the front door. They don’t see her cross the road.  
  
Freddie walks down the street like she lives there, heading straight for the house next to Lecter’s. The neighbours are on holiday, the house empty and when the FBI called by earlier they’d gotten no answer. The two beat cops aren’t going to know that though, and they nod to Freddie as she walks up the path of it next-door. She pauses for a suitably convincing gawp, before going around the side of the house as though heading for the garage.  
  
From there, Freddie walks around the huge expanse and into the back garden. Why build a fence when your community is gated, after all?  
  
Lecter isn’t quite as generous, but he’s close enough. She steps through bushes, heeled boots crunching into snow as she walks across the grass through an un-gated opening in Lecter’s garden wall.

There’s no one at the backdoor- it’s missing person, not murder. Not yet.  
  
Freddie walks through the grass, heading for there and unhooks the key from her pocket. Time for the moment of truth. At least it won’t be too hard to run is Graham screwed her.

‘What about an alarm?’ she’d asked as she pocketed the key, phone aloft in the other hand to show Graham she wasn’t recording. Graham smiled and perhaps on a normal person it would’ve looked fond.

‘Hannibal doesn’t need an alarm,’ he’d said, rubbing his chin. He wasn’t wearing his wedding ring. ‘He’s top of the food chain, after all.’

Freddie puts the key in the patio door- and unlocks a silent house.  
  
Freddie closes the door behind her and finds herself standing in the dining room. She’s been here before, but only once. She remembers Graham sitting across from her, Lecter at the head of the table. And Abigail. Freddie shakes the ghosts off quickly, using the screen of her phone as a muted torch, Freddie looks at the painting above the cabinet on the wall.  
  
_Classy_ , she thinks of the porcelain white woman spreading her legs for an equally anaemic swan. She considers taking a photo but doesn’t risk it, instead looking at the name of the painting which Lecter has embossed on a small gold plaque in the frame. Leda and the Swan. Freddie actually snorts to herself.  
  
Jesus, what did Graham even see in this guy? Asides from… well. Freddie turns beneath the high ceiling, touches the remarkably stern wood of the table. Money isn’t a bad reason for anything, after all. Not even she would begrudge Graham that.  
  
The room she gets into first is the crime-scene, body close to the wall as she watches the cops’ shadows through the slim hall windows.  
  
Freddie reaches into her bag and takes out her smaller camera. She does her best with the ISO and no flash, but she’ll still have to doctor later. The thought slides away as she moves about the room, however.

Freddie is careful not to touch anything, but she’s tempted to kick the chaise with her foot. It looks heavy. And something about this just looks wrong to her, though Freddie can’t put her finger on it.   
  
Freddie turns and regards the shelves. There are books, manuscripts and an old telescope. No photographs. Nothing framed. Not even a wedding album.

She even checks the desk drawers. The story will be harder to sell without even so much as a smile.  
  
Upstairs, Freddie walks until she finds their bedroom.  
  
The bed is made like a hotel and she gets entirely distracted by the array of mirrors hanging over it. Freddie isn’t even surprised. Money can’t buy taste and given the match, Freddie is not at all surprised to see neither Graham nor Lecter have it.  
  
There’s nothing under the bed, or hidden in the wardrobe. The bedside locker holds the essentials, though a modicum more eccentric. Who keeps their lube in a jar? It looks like something she might find in a Victorian chemist and it’s so jarringly at odds with the box of standard condoms. Freddie takes a photo, already drafting the subtext for all of that.  
  
But there’s nothing else. No leather, no rubber, no fur. Not even Graham’s own issue handcuffs or a tacky addition they might’ve been tossed over Christmas in a terrible game of White Elephant. So the options are- A) Graham and Lecter were incredibly happy with each other. Or- B) They didn’t see the need in getting tools for a job they had no intention of doing.

Freddie does find a genuine toolbox though, shoved under the bathroom sink. But it’s not full of tools.

‘Oh, Graham,’ Freddie says aloud, pausing to absorb what’s before her. ‘Couldn’t let it go, huh?’

It’s a hodge-podge of things; a neck scarf, fishing lures and a broken piece of what Freddie thinks is deer antler. A cell-phone, (outdated) and a pair of brown leather gloves. A shrine and it fills Freddie with an unusual caution.

It’s the smell that gets to her. The scarf still has Abigail’s perfume on it. Freddie had bought that perfume for her.

Freddie closes the box with a snap. She doesn’t take a picture.

Back downstairs, Freddie finds herself in the kitchen, the area fragrant with something acid. There’s nothing on the countertops. Freddie saw the knife-block being taken away earlier. Freddie walks up to the fridge, opens it and lets the room flood with the light of it.  
  
Lecter’s home is a dark place. The walls are severe, the furniture square and the whole place drips with a masculinity that might make Freddie laugh if she were here for any other reason. It seems like the kind of place Graham would repel from like a magnet, to be honest. Freddie takes some photos, spying a black door that almost vanishes into the shadowed wall.  
  
There we go, Freddie thinks, closing the fridge. She guides herself along the wall, making it to the door and fumbling with the handle. It opens easily and Freddie smiles, smelling salt and herbs. The pantry.  
  
She closes herself in and uses the torch. It looks like something from a book. Beautifully presented, even the oranges caught in a net looking as well positioned as a model in a shoot. Freddie heads for the fruit baskets, rummaging her gloved hands through the tumbles of lemons and possets of strawberries. She finds what she’s looking for on the second shelf.  
  
It’s a silver serving box containing four or five pomegranates. She takes them out, setting them on the counter and stops them rolling too far and off. At the bottom of the box is a crimson satin sheet to protect the fruit. Freddie rips it up, the tear sounding obscenely loud in the quiet of the house. Beneath it is smooth, black leather.  
  
Freddie pries the book out from where it’s been jammed in. She bends the leather cover a bit, creases some pages but she manages it. She quickly replaces the pomegranates, holds the book in her hands and thinks-  
  
If they ever find Graham, she’s going to buy him a drink. Worst case scenario, she’ll pour it on the grave dirt and say _cheers_.

Then the pantry door opens suddenly and Freddie doesn’t scream but she comes embarrassingly close.

She can’t make the figure out at first, the light of their torchlight is too much and Freddie holds the book close to her chest- for all the good it’ll do her.

‘I thought you weren’t free til morning,’ Freddie says as Jack Crawford lowers the torch. He doesn’t smile.

‘It’s morning,’ he says, stepping aside so Freddie is free to leave the pantry. ‘So consider our appointment officially started.’

Freddie walks out to be met with the two Baltimore PD cops she’d dismissed earlier. One of them holds up some handcuffs. Freddie tosses her head so her hair is out of her face.

She stuffs the book in her bag, before holding out her hands. ‘Just be careful with those, okay? This watch was expensive and I don’t want it scratched.’

 

 

* * *

 

 

They don’t even offer any tea or coffee. The least they can do is offer tea or coffee. Freddie’s been up all night after all. She says as much to the cop standing at the door of the interrogation room they have her in. He gives her an apologetic look, but doesn’t go to fetch anything. The service in the Central precinct is better.  
  
Freddie looks around the room and wonders if this is where they brought Hannibal Lecter. It’d be so much better if she still had her phone, but they’ve taken everything. Even her coat and that coat is French and she’s pretty sure they’re not hanging it properly wherever they’ve taken it. The cop leaves her suddenly, a commotion in the hall before someone walks in.  
  
When Jack Crawford appears, he has the book she’s found one of his gloved hands and a manila folder in the other. He slaps both down on the table. He’s very, very angry, Freddie can tell though he doesn’t raise his voice.  
  
‘What is this?’ Jack asks, putting a firm finger on the book. It dips the leather cover.  
  
Freddie purses her lips, pouting. ‘I don’t know. You took it off me before I could look.’  
  
‘Where did you find it?’  
  
‘Fruit basket.’ Freddie is cool as a cucumber. This is not her first conversation (or interrogation) with Jack Crawford and she’s fairly certain of the rhythm by now. Jack settles into the chair across from her.  
  
‘And how did you know to look in the fruit basket?’ he asks, barely managing a calm cadence and Freddie shrugs her narrow shoulders.  
  
‘Anonymous tip.’  
  
‘And did this anonymous tip let you in as well?’ Jack pushes and he rests his hands on the table. Clasped together and Freddie keeps her arms crossed, leans back in her chair and doesn’t say anything. Jack sighs. ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t have asked the guard to keep an eye out for a particular red-headed woman? You’re quite distinctive, Miss Lounds.’  
  
‘I had rather hoped you would’ve be preoccupied with other more pressing issues,’ Freddie replies, making a show of looking around Jack. ‘Unless you’ve found Will Graham already. Down the back of the sofa, perhaps?’  
  
‘What do you know about Will Graham?’  
  
‘That I have sources saying you’re dragging the river today,’ Freddie says and Jack’s face twists unpleasantly. ‘And you don’t have to drag for someone who’s got the energy to swim. Tell me, Agent Crawford, does Hannibal Lecter know you’re looking for the body of his husband in the Patapsco River?’  
  
There is brief but heavy moment of silence at that. Freddie knows her way around an awkward silence as well.  
  
‘You contaminated the crime scene,’ Jack says eventually, quite stern now and he doesn’t even acknowledge Freddie’s question. Freddie sucks in her lip, plays up her offence but Jack doesn’t bother to comment on it. ‘You tried to steal evidence. You break a lot of rules, Miss Lounds, but this? This seems like a new low. Even for you.’  
  
Jack takes the book and opens it. It’s a ledger, or notebook of some kind. Freddie thinks she knows what it is. The pages are hard and knobbled with writing, Freddie can see. Jack flicks through the pages and lets the book fall open on itself, on a random page it seems. He reads aloud;  
  
_‘I have to deal with him. And my feelings about him.’_ Freddie’s arms drop, her mouth opening but silent as she realises just what exactly Graham had wanted her to find. _‘But there’s blood on my hands I can’t wash away. I worry about leaving it all over his life and smelling it on his skin. Like the taint of killing will follow me even to his bed.’_ _  
_ _  
_ Jack stops himself, looks away like he’s seen something obscene. He closes the diary- Will Graham’s diary, it appears. Freddie wants to snatch it right out of Jack’s hands. She practically itches with the urge. She had thought it to be Lecter’s notes on a patient- Graham or otherwise. But this? This is _much_ better.  
  
Forget the drink. She’ll pour the whole damn bottle right on Graham’s headstone for him.  
  
‘Do you know what this is?’ Jack asks, eyes fixed on the cover of the diary. Freddie shakes her head and though Jack doesn’t look at her, he takes her silence as a negative anyway. ‘This looks like Will Graham’s diary. A diary we didn’t even think could exist. But you went into Will Graham’s house, the night he’s gone missing and found it in a fruit basket.’  
  
Jack slaps the book down and Freddie jumps, startled by the sudden violence of it. She looks at Jack’s face and tries not to let him see he’s scared her as he stares right back.  
  
‘Who told you about the diary?’  
  
Freddie weighs her options, before she goes with what she truly feels is the most helpful; ‘No one told me about the diary. I was told to look for pomegranates. After that, I found it myself.’  
  
‘Pomegranates,’ Jack repeats slowly. ‘And again, I ask, who? Who told you about the pomegranates?’  
  
‘Will Graham,’ Freddie answers, taking some pleasure in Jack’s clear disbelief. She breathes a laugh through her nose. ‘Trust me, I was as surprised as you are when he called me up about a month ago. He said he needed help. And I’m nothing if not helpful, even to people like Will Graham.’  
  
‘You hate Will,’ Jack says, sounding confused. ‘And he hates you.’  
  
‘The enemy of my enemy, I guess.’  
  
‘And what war are you waging exactly?’ Jack says before he reaches for the manila folder. He opens it and takes out a page, places it on the counter before her. It’s a print out from TattleCrime; an old article from just under a year ago. ‘Do you remember this article?’  
  
She does, but Freddie looks over it briefly and makes a small hum. ‘More or less.’  
  
The title is _Trouble in Paradise? Partners in Crime or Warden On Duty?_ It comes with a black and white photo of Graham and Lecter, obviously arguing, outside Quantico. Well, obvious from  Graham, who at the time was baring teeth like a dog. Freddie remembers it vividly. There are few things that get as many hits as a fresh murder, but Will Graham and his… tumultuous marriage has always been one of the top clickbaits for her. That day had been a good day on a slow week.  
  
‘What do you know about Hannibal and Will’s marriage, Miss Lounds?’  
  
‘Not as much as you, surely,’ she says light, clicking her tongue. ‘Though neither of us were invited to the wedding. Did you ever find that strange? No witness but the court. They didn’t even have a party.’  
  
‘Will isn’t the party type,’ Jack says and Freddie can’t really argue that. ‘You reported on them frequently.’  
  
‘I reported on Will Graham,’ Freddie clarifies, sliding the sheet back towards Jack. ‘Hannibal Lecter just falls in by association.’  
  
‘You called Will unstable in that article.’  
  
‘Will Graham was unstable,’ Freddie says, unabashed. ‘Guess his therapist didn’t suit him.’  
  
Jack takes out more pages from his folder. He lays them out, not quite overlapping. There’s over ten and soon the whole table is covered. Each a different article Freddie has written on Will Graham, and on more than half of them, his marriage. Freddie is a little perturbed; she hadn’t thought she’d go back to that particular well so often.  
  
She elects to call it morbid fascination.  
  
‘You published this yesterday,’ Jack says, pointing at the last page he put down. It’s not even a true article in itself, more a small side-note Freddie had made to commiserate Graham on his five years of marriage. And the strength of the pre-nup that _surely_ must exist for it to have lasted. ‘You mentioned that Will Graham is ill.’  
  
Freddie frowns. ‘I don’t think anyone can argue that Will Graham was a very sick man, Agent Crawford.’  
  
‘Physically ill,’ Jack says, firmer this time. ‘You said he’s physically ill. How did you find that out?’  
  
‘I didn’t have to find anything. I just had to look at him,’ Freddie says before she pauses, the realisation coming too late. She raises a hand, touches the ends of her hair as she thinks aloud. ‘When was the last time you saw Will Graham in person, Jack?’  
  
Jack stiffens. He’s like some small bug that just got stepped on and Freddie picks up the scent of it.  
  
‘Wow,’ Freddie says slowly, nodding. ‘That long, huh?’  
  
Jack doesn’t answer and his cheeks balloon with a rage he is clearly trying to hold onto. Freddie can do nothing if not appreciate hard work, in all its forms. She debates whether or not to take pity but Jack speaks before she decides.  
  
‘Physical illness wasn’t your only implication,’ Jack says and he’s trying to be careful, Freddie can tell. But it’s so clear that whatever Jack wants from her, he wants it fast. ‘You mentioned bruises.’  
  
‘Ligature marks. On Graham’s wrists, yes.’ Getting a photo that would show them as well as Freddie had seen them herself in person had been no easy feat. She’s still quite proud of it, really. ‘Not exactly a love bite.’  
  
‘Did Graham discuss any of this with you? That night you met and he told you about the fruit basket?’  
  
Freddie shakes her head. ‘He didn’t talk about his marriage. Or not quite, anyway.’  
  
‘I didn’t say anything about his marriage,’ Jack points out and Freddie can’t help the look she gives him.  
  
‘I think we both know what we’re talking about here. Did you ever have reason to suspect your favourite psychopath may have shacked up with someone a little meaner than himself?’ Freddie asks and Jack reaches for the diary, almost by instinct. He’s always been so protective, Freddie’s noticed.  
  
‘I have never had reason to believe Will Graham was abused.’  
  
It’s the first time Jack has used the past tense and Freddie notices that, too.  
  
‘But you did suspect,’ she realises aloud. Freddie regards her articles pointedly. ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself, Agent Crawford. Domestic abuse is a difficult thing to know for certain.’  
  
‘You seemed pretty certain.’  
  
‘I was willing to look where you wouldn’t.’  
  
‘Like the pantry?’ Jack asks and he pulls the diary closer to him. ‘Miss Lounds, I don’t think I need to remind you how serious the trouble you’re in is. So when I ask you a question, I’m expecting full cooperation, do you understand me?’

‘Of course,’ Freddie says, meeting Jack’s eye. ‘But I promised Will Graham my discretion.’  
  
‘That’s forfeit until we find him. Have I made myself clear?’ Jack says and he takes out a plastic evidence bag. He slides the diary into it, before putting it into the lining-pocket of his jacket. Right over his heart. ‘Do you have the key to Will’s basement?’  
  
Freddie is completely thrown by this question. ‘Why would I have that?’  
  
‘Maybe the same reason you have the key to his backdoor.’  
  
‘He gave me the key himself,’ she says, leaning forward. ‘Why do you want to look in the basement, Agent Crawford?’  
  
‘I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you at this time,’ Jack says and Freddie huffs loudly. ‘What else can you tell about the last time you saw Will Graham?’  
  
‘Am I a suspect?’  
  
‘No, not at present. But you are a person of interest.’  
  
‘Is Hannibal Lecter a suspect?’  
  
‘I’m not answering that.’  
  
‘So he is, then,’ Freddie says, smiling with teeth because it’s one of those dreadful situations where all you can do is laugh, really. ‘Graham looked ill when I saw him. He had bruises, though I didn’t understand them for what they were at the time. He gave me the key to his house and he said that if something were to happen, I was to go and look for pomegranates.’  
  
‘What kind of thing did he expect to happen?’  
  
‘He didn’t say, and he wouldn’t answer my questions. Like you said, he’s not that keen on me,’ Freddie says plainly, looking at the articles again. She looks at Graham, his gaunt face in black and white. ‘He said I was the only one he could trust to push when needed.’  
  
‘What does he expect you to push?’ Jack asks and Freddie wonders that herself.  
  
‘I haven’t figured that part out yet,’ she says, before raising a hand to incline to Jack’s chest. ‘I assume the diary would’ve helped me.’  
  
‘Why give it to you?’  
  
‘He called it a fail safe,’ Freddie explains and she puts her hands back on her lap. Taps her fingers on her knees with interest. Either through dumb luck or design, Will Graham has managed to put Freddie quite squarely in the middle of this. It’s exactly where she wants to be. ‘Did you know that Graham applied for an independent psychiatric evaluation from Quantico to be reissued a weapon?’  
  
Jack blinks. ‘No, I did not. How do you know this?’  
  
‘Anonymous tip,’ Freddie lies coolly and Jack looks for a moment like he might press that before deciding it’s not worth the effort. Freddie wouldn’t tell anyway. Not everyone gives permission like Graham does. ‘Do you know why he would apply for an issue weapon instead of simply going out and buying his own?’  
  
Jack shakes his head and Freddie leans even more forward, lowers her voice.  
  
‘You don’t have to pay for an issue weapon. Why would Graham be afraid of spending his own money? Unless, there was someone watching what he might be spending it on,’ Freddie suggests and she can tell from the look on Jack’s face that he understands what she’s saying. ‘Have you ever heard of economic abuse, Agent Crawford?’  
  
Jack nods silently. Freddie’s flush of sympathy is entirely genuine.  
  
‘Jokes aside, Agent Crawford, I’m not actually a psychopath. I don’t want bad things to happen to good people. And I do think you’re a good person,’ she says kindly and Jack sits back in his chair, as though trying to put distance between them. ‘I’m sorry this happened to you.’  
  
‘You said it yourself,’ Jack says, glancing away and his mind is obviously elsewhere. ‘I’ve lost someone before.’  
  
‘That was in the field,’ Freddie points out. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. You can’t blame yourself for what happened to Will Graham in that house.’  
  
‘I don’t,’ Jack says, fierce and Freddie stops her cooing. Jack is all steel when he looks at her. ‘I know exactly who to blame.’  
  
He drums his fingers on the table. Latex sticking each time.  
  
‘I need your help, Miss Lounds.’  
  
Freddie arches a brow. ‘What do you need?’  
  
‘Everything,’ Jack says, reaching out and pushing the stacked papers of her articles towards him. ‘Everything you have on Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter.’  
  
‘It’s faster than a warrant,’ Freddie replies, because it’s true and why Jack is asking. ‘But I’ll want something in return.’ She nods towards him. ‘Will wanted me to find that diary. He wanted me to read it.’  
  
Jack puts a hand on his chest, over where the book is. He looks thoughtful. ‘And what do you intend to do with it?’  
  
‘What Will wanted,’ Freddie says, obstinate and she can’t help but feel that Graham would admire her for it. ‘I’ll push.’


	10. Will Graham: February 13th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning:** Explicit references to suicide. Canon-typical violence.

**February 13th, 2017**

 

 _It’s 4:24pm. I’m in Bloomington, Minnesota. My name is Will Graham._  
  
Will waits for her in the bathroom.

It’s no longer a crime scene, but Will can still smell the coppery tang of blood. It hangs in the air and if he looks too close at the tiling, he can see it in the grout. It’s been cleaned but not really. No one cares about this house. The cannibal house. It stands open like a wound.

When Beverly walks in, he doesn’t even look up. He stays on the floor, staring across the small blue space of the Hobb’s bathroom at the tub. It’s old-fashioned and boxed in. There are water marks on the paneling.

‘Will?’

Will doesn’t answer. Beverly walks over and sits down next to him, sliding down the papered wall. The house hasn’t sold, despite Abigail’s efforts. The wallpaper remains from a life long over. Will and Beverly sit with their knees up, hands over them. Sitting around the campfire, telling stories, Will thinks madly. Everything he thinks has been a little mad lately.  
  
‘I didn’t really expect you to be here,’ he says and Beverly hums, looking around the room.  
  
‘What are you doing here, Will?’ she asks, shaking her head. She tugs at her scarf, loosening it out and Will looks away. The memory is too strong.  
  
‘I came here to… to be alone. I guess.’  
  
‘But you called me anyway.’

‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ he says to her and Beverly nudges him.

‘I had to really. We were all looking for you, you know.’

‘I just wanted to- to let you know. You didn’t have to come for me,’ Will points out but Beverly just shrugs, like a flight is no different than if she’d hopped the bus. ‘That’s not why I called you.’

‘Why did you then?’

‘Better than calling Hannibal and explaining.’

Beverly doesn’t say anything to that which Will thinks is pretty fair. It’s not the kind of thing someone can answer anyway. He feels he can hear what she’s thinking anyway. It’s what most people think, when he talks about Hannibal. Their marriage is a book with half the pages ripped out but Will knows the story back and forth.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Beverly says instead, though she’s being kind about it. It settles over Will like the film of something. ‘It’s not going to do you any good.’

‘I had to look again.’

‘You’ve looked. You’ve looked a hundred times. Too many times.’

‘The answer is here,’ Will says and he taps at his forehead. He taps a bit harder. ‘I just need- I’m missing it. I’m missing the part that makes it all make sense.’

Beverly leans closer, shoulders touching. ‘I don’t think these things ever make sense, Will.’

‘This doesn’t,’ Will says and he looks at his hands. How steady they are, years later, and still he let everything slip through them. ‘I needed to see it again, to see if things would become clearer.’

‘You can’t be clear on this case,’ Beverly says gently, reaching out to and she takes his hand. He stares at their skin- brown and white- and thinks of nothing but this bathroom. The stale smell of the cleaner used. ‘And no one can blame you.’

‘Hannibal does,’ Will says before he can stop himself.

‘I’m sure Hannibal doesn’t blame you.’

‘He should. I was responsible.’

‘You both were, if you want to play it that way,’ Beverly says but Will shakes his head.

‘If it wasn’t for me, Hannibal and Abigail would never have met,’ Will says and it doesn’t feel good to say, but he needs to admit it. It’s accepting culpability. Will wonders if Hannibal will ever forgive him, for bringing Hannibal back to this place. Another child lost.

‘Would that have been better?’

‘It wouldn’t have been this.’

Beverly doesn’t ask what that means, which is good because Will wouldn’t know how to start explaining it. The way Will feels for Hannibal breeds differently and trying to contort it into something he can explain feels like trying to stop his heart beating the same way he might try to hold his breath. He tries very hard, sometimes it feels like it’s all he does.  
  
He and Hannibal exist in a constant state of other people’s questions.

Will wipes his eye with the heel of his hand: ‘Perhaps it should’ve ended here. In the very beginning.’

‘Her father would’ve killed her back then if it wasn’t for you.’

Garret Jacob-Hobbs is moving downstairs, or so Will imagines. He hears the steady footsteps, the low breath. When Will closes his eyes, he sees a thicket of antlers closing in around him until he’s punctured. Right through him, like a mouse by the shrike. Too small and helpless to pull himself from the thorns.

Will had wandered the house when he’d arrived looking for Abigail’s ghost, too. But she never came. Only asleep had Will seen her and in that dream, she had been the way she’d been the last time he saw her. He’d woken in sweat, in tears and yelling. Hannibal had curled tight around him- held Will to his neck and breathed deep. Will had sobbed there, had torn at Hannibal’s skin.

‘He’s killed her now,’ Will says weakly, hanging his head. He wishes Hannibal were here but there’s a reason he isn’t. ‘I feel like a piece of string tied to itself at both ends. Where I was and where I am all scrambled up together.’ Will blinks through the prickle in his eyes. ‘Stuck in a loop.’  
  
‘You can’t have seen this coming, Will,’ Beverly says sternly and Will wonders who once locked her out of a decision like this to make her so hard now. ‘You’re not actually psychic. You can’t read people’s minds. Whatever Abigail was going through she’s not the only person in the world to hide it from those who cared about her.’  
  
Will doesn’t answer that. He’s looking at his hands. The ring Hannibal had give him- gold, plain. Traditional so no one could see it and doubt. But the engraving is on the inside where only Will knows. They can be honest when no one can see.

‘Is that why you came here?’ Beverly asks, sounding a touch exasperated. ‘To punish yourself by thinking you killed her?’

‘They wouldn’t let me see her at first,’ Will says, ignoring that and trembling suddenly as the reality of the last month threatens to overcome him. He wipes at his eyes. ‘Hannibal wouldn’t let me.’

‘He was protecting you,’ Beverly says because she doesn’t know Hannibal like Will does. ‘You shouldn’t have had to see her.’

‘She looked asleep,’ Will remembers. He frowns. ‘How could she have looked so calm?’

Hannibal had called him that day. Will had known something was wrong from the tone of his voice. The carefully measured _Will_ that told Will that Hannibal had been standing before the inferno, keeping the flames back. Will had burned it all down anyway.

By the time they’d made it to Minnesota, it was only to identify the body. Local force had already decided but Will had pleaded to see the house anyway, see the room where it had happened. Will still remembers the look on Hannibal’s face. Painted right over his eyes as he’d watched Will beg and it had been the one thing Will never thought he’d see on Hannibal. Pity.

The bath had overrun. Just slightly, but enough. She had filled it so close to the top that when the blood let it had overflowed. The carpet had been soaked and it had still sunk under Will’s shoes when he finally got to the house. She’d been lying in the water when found, knife dropped by a white hand. Will had taken one look at what was left of the scene and known. He’d known. 

‘Why did she fill the tub, Bev?’ Will asks, staring at the thing itself. ‘It made no difference in the end. Why sit in the water?’

‘Will, she was _sick,’_ Beverly said to him, placating. ‘What she had been through- I mean, come on. No one could’ve known where to start helping with that. Not even Hannibal.’ Beverly squeezes his hand. ‘Not even you.’

‘Sick for four years?’

‘People carry all sorts of sick in them for longer,’ Beverly points out and Will can’t argue that, so he doesn’t. It isn’t what he means, but again Will struggles to think how to explain.

‘She didn’t kill herself, Bev.’

Beverly sighs. ‘Will, please-’

‘It wasn’t suicide.’

‘There’s no evidence of foul play. Nothing to suggest someone else was here. There’s no suspect!’

‘She used the knife on her throat. Her throat. Who does that?’

‘It was how she nearly died the first time! Her fingerprints are all over the knife, there’s a note. The note she left _you._ It’s sad but it makes sense, you must see how it makes sense.’

‘But the water,’ Will says, frowning. ‘Why the water if she cut her throat? That doesn’t make sense.’

‘She made a desperate decision at the last moment. It happens all the time.’

‘It doesn’t fit the profile.’

‘Who’s profile?’ Beverly pleads openly now. ‘Who would want her dead, Will? Think about it. Really think!’

Beverly sits up and rolls over, getting in front of his knees. She leans her hands on them and talks firmly, as though coaxing Will down from the height. Maybe that’s exactly where he is.

‘I know you’re looking for an answer but sometimes there isn’t one,’ she says and she’s squeezing his knees so denim digs in. ‘Sometimes things just go bad.’

‘Abigail hadn’t gone bad. She was always what she was,’ Will replies and it’s true. But only Will and Hannibal could see that. The gulf of how well they knew her has split apart between them in the last few days. Will lies in their bed, staring at Hannibal’s back and wondering, not for the first time in their marriage- _Why are you here?_

Will is waiting for Hannibal to get eaten by Will’s love, too. He feels he’s been waiting since they met.

Beverly doesn’t say anything for a long while. She tries standing and bringing Will with her, but he won’t be moved, so she sits back down on the floor. She’s guilty, Will can see. Her shoulders hunch with it and he looks past her, sees her concern cloud around her like a fog.

‘I brought Jack,’ Beverly says, admitting to anything before Will can even question. ‘He insisted actually. You left work yesterday and never came back.’

Will closes his eyes and thinks of the woods. Leans his head back and thinks he may even sleep, he’s so tired. ‘Why?’

Beverly makes an impatient sound. ‘Jack has always worried he pushed you up to the edge and after this he thinks you might push yourself over it. Can you really blame him? He wants to see you himself. And possibly bring you home in handcuffs so you can’t even answer the phone, never mind book flights on it.’

‘Jack’s relieved,’ Will says to that and Beverly looks like she might argue before thinking against it. ‘One loose end finally tied up. He doesn’t have to worry about Abigail being a killer anymore.’

‘That’s not fair, Will. Jack didn’t want this to happen,’ Beverly says in Jack’s defence but Will doesn’t really want to hear it. ‘No one did.’

She can say that as much as she likes, but it’s still true, Will thinks. Four years of Abigail looking over her shoulder, the shadow of Jack and the FBI not far behind. No evidence; nothing but Jack’s own gut feeling.  
  
Will feels like he’s been trapped in the pit of it ever since walking into the Hobbs’ kitchen that first day four years ago. Slowly digested by Jack’s own doubt and breaking apart like bones with every time Abigail held a knife in Hannibal’s kitchen over the last few years. How quickly, Will would look away. How afraid he was, of what he might see if he didn’t.

Not that any of it matters now. The guilt for it all is so deep inside of Will now he may never be able to crawl his way out.

‘Where is Jack now?’ he asks Beverly and she visibly relaxes. She condenses, like a balloon deflating.  
  
‘He’s outside. He wants to bring you back home.’ Beverly stands up again, but she doesn’t force Will. Maybe she can tell that he’s already conceded the loss. Will knows they won’t physically make him leave, but if he refuses any longer then they’ll call- ‘Hannibal will want you back, too.’  
  
It’s pathetic, Will knows, but he can’t help the way something in his chest gives way. A cave in, or the trap of a vacuum. He aches for Hannibal so deeply but Hannibal will not comfort him. Will’s sure Hannibal doesn’t even know how. It’s so much easier here, where Abigail died than being anywhere she lived.  
  
_Some places are stained now,_ Abigail had told Will once. Looked right through him to the ugly heart that beat inside to the rhythm of ten bullets. _Some_ _people_ , _too_.  
  
Will finally thinks he understand what she meant. Hannibal has understood longer. Will had suggested once they might go to Lithuania, if Hannibal would like Will to see it. Hannibal’s reaction of fierce quiet before telling Will that there was nothing to see there was an answer Will still carries the weight of in his stomach.  
  
Will reaches a hand out and lets Beverly pull him up. He’s got nothing else with him- passport and wallet are in his pocket, phone turned off in the other one. Beverly hovers, teeters on her feet before finally deciding and she takes Will in her arms and hugs him tightly. She smells good, and Will thinks of Hannibal again. Wondering what he would know from being this close.  
  
Jack is outside the house, by what must be a rented car. When he sees Will, his whole face releases like a trigger and he tilts his head, hiding it with the rim of his hat. Will curls in on himself, wondering if he could coil so far inwards he might vanish. Beverly heads straight for the passenger seat. Will wonders if they have the childlock on for the back in case he throws himself from the car.  
  
‘You shouldn’t be here, Will,’ Jack says and that’s turning into a bit of a mantra for them now. Will feels Jack doesn’t scold him much but for Will’s presence around Abigail Hobbs. ‘Do you have any idea the panic you caused?’  
  
Will suspects this panic was felt by Jack because Hannibal most certainly isn’t panicking, where ever he is. Will doesn’t answer and Jack sighs heavily, before stepping down to open a door to the backseat of the car.  
  
‘Come on. Time for home, Will.’  
  
‘Is Hannibal with you?’  
  
‘He’ll meet us in DC.’  
  
Will nods, suddenly realising he’s been touching his wedding ring. He looks down at himself doing it, feeling split apart as he grows aware but doesn’t stop. Sometimes Will imagines that he and Hannibal slip back and forth between each other. Perhaps Hannibal is touching his ring, too, back in Baltimore and now here Will is.

‘What are you doing here, Will?’ Jack asks as Will still doesn’t move towards the car. ‘Why poke at the wound?’

‘I wanted to look again.’

‘You won’t do yourself any good doing that.’

‘I needed to see if it would be different,’ Will says and he pushes at his wedding ring. He pushes it so it bites his skin. ‘If I could find the part that’s missing.’

Jack narrows his eyes. ‘What do you think is missing?’

Will shakes his head, unsure how to answer. ‘I don’t know. Myself, maybe. I feel like something that’s eroding, Jack. Little parts of me fading away. None of this makes any sense to me.’

‘You can’t think you failed just because you didn’t see this coming,’ Jack says and maybe he thinks that’s kind but Will doesn’t feel it. ‘It’s not your job. You weren’t her parent, Will.’

Jack carefully sidesteps the word father.  
  
‘I think I need some time away,’ Will says and Jack straightens up, expands to make himself bigger. ‘For a while.’  
  
‘We can talk about that when we get you back home,’ Jack says and Will closes his eyes. Lets his ring go and rubs at his face with both hands. Makes a decision.  
  
‘I want to call Hannibal first.’  
  
‘You don’t have to. He’s not angry with you, Will,’ Jack says, in a way that tells Will that while Hannibal may not be, Jack very much is but trying to hide it. ‘He just wants you back safe and sound.’  
  
‘It’ll just take a minute.’  
  
‘Will, wait-’  
  
Will walks away, towards the trees at the far side of the garden that have grown wild. No one wants to cut them, just like no one wants to buy the house. Will wonders if the neighbourhood council will just knock it down, now that it doesn’t belong to anyone anymore. He turns his phone on and calls Hannibal.  
  
‘Will,’ Hannibal says softly when he answers, barely two rings in. Will breathes out, trembles inside like his bones are something hollow in a wind. Hannibal’s voice fills him. ‘I was beginning to get worried.’  
  
‘So I heard,’ Will says, glancing back at where Jack is watching him. Beverly, too, from her window. Will goes back to the trees. ‘I didn’t mean- I’m in Minnesota.’  
  
‘I thought so.’  
  
‘I’m sorry.’  
  
‘Don’t be sorry,’ Hannibal says to him. ‘Be here. Come home.’  
  
‘I am,’ Will promises and he swallows stiffly. ‘I wish you were here.’  
  
Hannibal doesn’t reply straight away. ‘I could’ve been, had you told me.’  
  
‘You knew where to look. You could’ve come for me.’  
  
‘Would you have wanted that?’ Hannibal asks, curious. ‘Do you want that?’  
  
‘I sometimes wonder…’ Will trails off, his mind feeling severed. Disconnected; his heart is bedwarm with his marital sheets and burned by parental grief all at once and Will isn’t sure where to look. ‘I wonder what you would do if I weren’t around.’

‘What do you think I’d do? Or does it depend on where you’ve gone?’ Hannibal says, playing the game and Will is comforted by this, despite everything. ‘Where have you gone, Will?’

‘I think you’d survive.’

‘What would I survive?’

‘Me,’ Will answers and Hannibal takes a small breath. It sounds so loud down the phone.

‘I don’t know if I would want to,’ Hannibal says carefully and Will frowns, unsure what to make of that. It’s not exactly a new sentiment but things are… different now. Now Will’s love has a body count. ‘I think I could survive a great deal, Will. But a life without you would only be that- surviving.’

‘But you would. Survive.’

‘Is that all you’d want from me?’  
  
Will looks at his ring, if only to imagine that if he does it’ll force Hannibal to look at his. ‘Promise me something. Promise you’ll pull me back.’  
  
‘Pull you back from what?’ Hannibal says and there’s an edge- so slight, only Will could hear it. Hannibal is reassessing, wondering where exactly Will is.  
  
‘The bluff,’ Will answers and Hannibal is silent again, absorbing no doubt. Hannibal must savour everything before he agrees to swallow.  
  
‘I promise then,’ Hannibal says at last and Will feels something unknot inside. A worry he wasn’t even aware of until now it’s sated. ‘Wherever you are, Will, I promise I will come for you.’  
  
‘Then come for me,’ Will challenges and he hangs up, suddenly impulsive. Hannibal doesn’t call back, wouldn’t even consider it. No. Hannibal is already leaving wherever he is. He’s already keeping his promise.  
  
Will goes back and when he tells Jack he will not go with him, that Will will stay in Minnesota and wait for Hannibal, Jack looks like he might just handcuff Will after all and force him. Other people in the neighbourhood, people who actually live here are beginning to venture past their curtains to look at them arguing.  
  
‘Will, this is pointless!’  
  
‘I didn’t ask you to come,’ Will says and Jack mutters _Jesus wept_ under his breath. ‘I’m going to wait for Hannibal.’  
  
‘How does that make any goddamn sense?’  
  
‘You’d come for Bella,’ Will says and Jack makes a fist at his side. ‘So Hannibal will come for me. I need to be here, waiting.’  
  
‘Am I supposed to understand that?’ Jack asks, all bluster.

Will just shrugs in response. Jack makes a low noise of frustration.  
  
‘I’m not even going to try and pretend I know how you two operate,’ Jack says, fist blooming into an open palm that he uses to direct each point succinctly. Will looks at his chin, avoids his eyes and wonders if Hannibal has already gotten himself a plane ticket. ‘But I’m concerned, Will. This is concerning behaviour and I am not going to just walk away from you right now.’  
  
‘I don’t need you here, Jack,’ Will says and he sounds petulant, though it’s true. ‘I’m not in any danger.’  
  
‘I’m not so sure about that.’  
  
‘I won’t hurt myself,’ Will says, getting annoyed now. ‘If you’re worried about finding another body in this house, Jack, then don’t. I don’t think the tell-tale floorboards of the Hobbs house can take another addition.’  
  
Jack doesn’t find Will’s joke funny. Hannibal would’ve found it funny.  
  
But Jack does leave, eventually. He admits defeat when Will rightfully points out that they will end up drawing the attention of the local force if one of them doesn’t yield, and no one wants to drag the FBI any further into the mess than Will already does by default. It’s not over, Will knows as he watches the car drive away. But it’s at least a reprieve.  
  
Will waits in the house for hours until it’s dark. Hannibal arrives, just as he promised he would.  
  
The electricity in the house is turned off. Will waits on the empty floor of the living room, staring out the glass porch doors at an empty sky. There’s moonlight, but not much. He hears Hannibal come in the front door, hears Hannibal head upstairs.  
  
‘Down here,’ Will calls, listening to Hannibal change direction from where they had found Abigail to where Will is now. Will doesn’t look at him when he walks in, he just keeps watching the trees move in a wind outside.  
  
Hannibal walks up to him, stands so very close and reaches a hand down. He rests his palm on the top of Will’s head, stretches his fingers so Will’s hair curls between them. Will closes his eyes and tilts back slightly, letting Hannibal ground him.  
  
‘I woke to an empty bed,’ Hannibal says by way of a greeting. ‘That is not something I am accustomed to.’  
  
‘I never came,’ Will admits, moving a hand up to hold Hannibal’s arm. He feels the rough fabric of Hannibal’s fine coat. ‘I just waited, knowing you’d expect me to come eventually and then left instead.’  
  
‘I was worried.’  
  
‘Were you?’  
  
Hannibal doesn’t say anything to that and Will thinks he understands.  
  
‘Why did she do it, Hannibal?’ Will asks and he squeezes tighter. ‘Why couldn’t she tell me where it hurt?’  
  
‘Perhaps for the same reason you don’t tell me where it hurts,’ Hannibal says to that and it’s not as cruel as he could be, and for that Will is grateful. ‘I don’t want you to hurt, Will.’

‘You don’t care if I hurt,’ Will says and he’s not being cruel. It’s just a fact.

‘You’re my husband. Of course I care.’

‘I’m your husband so you give me priority. That’s not quite the same,’ Will says and he turns his head, raises it slightly so his forehead brushes Hannibal’s wrist. Hannibal’s hand moves, down to Will’s cheek. ‘Not very ethical for a doctor, you know. You shouldn’t put me first like that.’’

‘Do you think I put you over Abigail?’

‘I think you wouldn’t know how to do any differently,’ Will says and Hannibal makes a small noise in agreement.

‘I have never been at my most faithful to the profession when it comes to you.’  
  
‘That’s one way to put it,’ Will says and Hannibal’s large hand has his fingers curve the shell of Will’s ear. ‘But you are faithful to something.’  
  
‘These things require faith,’ Hannibal replies and Will’s eyes tighten, squeeze as something burns that might be tears. ‘You require faith.’  
  
The only point of contention Will feels they ever have in their relationship is this. ‘You know how I feel about you. I married you.’  
  
‘That’s all I need to know,’ Hannibal says and his thumb presses into the creases at Will’s eye. ‘You asked me and I said yes. So here we are.’

‘Would you do things differently? If you had the chance to do it again?’ Will asks, opening his eyes and looking up at Hannibal upside-down. Hannibal isn’t looking at him, staring out at the dark.

‘Why should it be different?’ Hannibal asks, quieter. ‘And why should you think that it’s my decision that would change it all?’

‘Your decision started it.’

‘And you told me once that your decision would undo it. Are you undoing us, Will?’

Will rubs his thumb along Hannibal’s coat. Bends it to dig his nail in. There’s too many layers for Hannibal to possibly feel it.

‘Would you let me, if I was?’

‘I owe you as much,’ Hannibal says and his fingers twitch against Will’s hair. Hannibal looks down at him, face in shadow. ‘All the more reason why I hope you won’t.’

‘Because you’d be bound to accept it?’

‘Because I’d be bound to try,’ Hannibal says to that. ‘And I would try.’

‘You wouldn’t succeed?’

‘Do you think I could?’

‘I think we’re so involved now that even if we come apart there’ll be parts of us stuck under each other’s nails. It’d be like trying to wash off something under your skin.’

‘How deep do we go?’

‘All the way to the bone,’ Will says and he tugs on Hannibal’s arm, tries to pull him down. Hannibal comes and folds gracefully down to the floor. He sits next to Will and they both just look. Hannibal’s hand returns to Will’s face.

‘Is that how it would end?’ Hannibal asks, watching Will like he does in everything. ‘You and I?’

‘Cut down to the bone? I think that’d be an optimistic view of how it might end.’

‘You think it’d be worse?’

‘I don’t think either of us would be happy if it was anything short of the worst it could possibly be,’ Will says in a rush of breath, the words tumbling out of him. It feels so good to confess. No wonder everyone does in the end. ‘I’d want to be the worst of you.’

‘You are not the worst of me, Will,’ Hannibal says solemnly. ‘Nor the best. You are the choice of me.’

‘I don’t think you chose very wisely.’

‘Sometimes I feel I didn’t have choice at all,’ Hannibal says, brushing his thumb along the coarse hair of Will’s stubble.

‘I’m sorry I killed her,’ Will says, throat closing with emotion. Hannibal’s face doesn’t change, he just moves his head slightly. ‘I tried not to.’

‘You didn’t kill her, Will,’ Hannibal says and he rubs his thumb along Will’s cheek. He doesn’t tell Will not to be sorry. ‘What happened to Abigail was inevitable.’

‘It didn’t have to be.’

‘No,’ Hannibal agrees and something moves inside him, like water and Will can feel it. Will wants to fall in and drown with what swirls in Hannibal’s heart. ‘It didn’t have to be. But you cannot hold yourself responsible for her choices.’

‘Do you think I’m responsible?’

‘No more than I am.’

Will sags at hearing Hannibal say that. He leans on Hannibal’s hand, reaches out and grabs Hannibal’s coat. Just to hold on. Just to be near. ‘I don’t know how to be- how to be whatever I am now.’

‘A father without a child,’ Hannibal suggests and Will nods silently, not sure he can speak. Hannibal sighs softly. ‘It is a burden I would not have wished for you.’

‘Your sister wasn’t your child.’

‘But she was mine,’ Hannibal says and Will tugs, tries to get Hannibal closer but Hannibal doesn’t move. He just keeps touching Will’s face. ‘Just like Abigail was. Just like you are.’

‘For better or worse?’ Will asks without humour. Hannibal leans forward, presses their foreheads together. They breathe each other’s air.

‘And for all the choices in between.’

 

* * *

 

A month later in Quantico, Will hears their raised voices as he walks down the hall. Well, he hears Jack’s. Telling him that whatever Hannibal is saying is sufficient in getting under Jack’s skin which is no doubt the point. Will is already tired and he hasn’t even had the conversation yet.  
  
Through the glass door he opens to Jack’s office, Will sees Jack furiously turning behind the desk, walking around to meet Hannibal head on. Hannibal doesn’t even flinch.

‘You are not his keeper, doctor!’

‘Neither are you,’ Hannibal says, all ice and they both look over as Will walks in.

Jack is fuming. There’s practically steam pouring out of his ears and Hannibal probably looks the complete opposite to anyone who doesn’t know him. But the hands he has clasped in front of him, just hidden under where his overcoat is draped, are tightly wound and Will knows Hannibal is very close to breaking something.

That something may possibly be Jack, or Will, if Will doesn’t contain this.

‘Hannibal, can you wait outside?’ Will asks and Hannibal opens his mouth instantly to argue.

‘You don’t have to do this alone.’

Will resists the urge to shout. Just.

‘Please. Hannibal. Outside.’

It’s the _please_ that does it. It always is and Hannibal arches a brow at Will, but does as he’s told. He leaves and closes the door behind him and Will is grateful. Jack takes a large dramatic breath, hands on his hips. Will waits until he hears the door close. Not that it’ll make much difference if Jack keeps shouting.  
  
‘I’m choosing to believe that you didn’t send him here to do your dirty work,’ Jack says furiously and Will takes his glasses off, just to for something to do with his hands. He cleans the lenses on the edge of his shirt.  
  
‘You consider sabbatical request dirty work?’  
  
‘You can’t take sabbatical in the middle of a case,’ Jack says and Will looks at the carpet through his glasses, everything fuzzy that far from his face. Will sighs, pinches his nose. The case is women going missing- redheads, thirties to forties and being found after three days. Blinded and hands missing.

‘You have the profile. You don’t need me, really.’

‘I need you,’ Jack says firmly, using his hand to make the point. ‘And I’ll need you for the next one, too. You’re too good to retire back to the classroom so if you think I accept your resignation, I don’t.’

Will taps his finger against the arm of his glasses. ‘Resignation?’

‘That’s what Hannibal said would be in your best interest.’  
  
‘Hannibal shouldn’t be here,’ Will says, before putting his glasses back on. ‘I told him not to come.’  
  
Jack takes that slowly.  
  
‘You want to explain to me what’s going on, Will?’ Jack says and he’s still so angry, but at least he’s not shouting. Will resists the urge to look behind to him, to see if Hannibal is watching through the door. ‘Hannibal is of the mind that you’re coming apart at the seams. Are you coming apart at the seams?’  
  
It’s the nightmares, Will thinks, that seems to have forced Hannibal’s hand. The sleepwalking that steals Will from their bed and of all things Hannibal could object to, it is Will not being where Hannibal feels he’s left him that worries Hannibal the most.  
  
Will has always warned Hannibal that work might follow him home and Hannibal has always promised that it would never bother him. But that was before and this is now, and Will can feel the bite of Hannibal’s nails on his skin in the morning. Like drawing a leash to pull Will home with, in thin red lines. Abigail has died and now something is different.  
  
‘I told you I haven’t been feeling like myself,’ Will says mildly and Jack breathes heavy through his nose, cheeks puffing out. ‘I don’t know how much help I can really be.’  
  
‘You’re grieving,’ Jack says bluntly. ‘I understand. It’s hard. But you can’t let this get the better of you, Will. You gotta put things in perspective. You gotta keep yourself in perspective.’

‘Well, that’s where things are beginning to blur, Jack.’ Will rubs his face with both hands. They come away clammy from where he’s sweating. ‘I feel I’m running blind. That I’ve been forgetting parts of myself or… perhaps I’m just unravelling. Getting strings caught in the trees.’  
  
‘Hannibal’s worried,’ Jack says after a long few moments of silence. ‘I’m worried. But you can’t just walk away.’  
  
‘I’m not walking away. Just stepping back. Just for a while.’  
  
‘Is that what you think Hannibal wants you to do?’ Jack asks, quieter and Will meets his eye, considering that question.  
  
‘Why should it matter what Hannibal wants me to do?’  
  
‘I just want to make sure the choices you’re making are yours,’ Jack says and Will is so thrown by this, it catches him off-guard.  
  
‘Have I ever given you the impression my choices have been anything but?’ Will asks, curious but cautious. Jack looks over Will’s shoulder but doesn’t react- so Hannibal must be out of sight, must not be watching.  
  
‘I don’t think I’m the best judge of your choices,’ Jack answers and Will frowns, not liking the implication. ‘All I want to know is what you want from me here, Will.’  
  
Will scoffs. ‘I get a say now? Or do I only get a say if what I want is what you want?’  
  
‘I can’t make you work for me,’ Jack says but the tone of his voice suggest he might very well try anyway. ‘But the least I can do for you if you do is be something for you to hold onto. It’s all I’ve ever tried to do.’  
  
‘And Hannibal’s told you that you’ve- what? Failed?’ Will says, bares his teeth as he does in habit. ‘Since when have you started listening to Hannibal again?’  
  
‘Since you vanished for twenty-four hours and I thought you were lying at the bottom of a river somewhere in Minnesota,’ Jack says and he steps forward with a momentum, only to turn on it and give his back to Will. Jack rubs at his face, runs a hand over his head and clings to the back of his neck. ‘I’ve got a responsibility, Will.’  
  
Will balks, steps back on instinct. It’s too close, too reminiscent and Will closes his eyes to see Abigail’s corpse lying on the table in Minnesota. Will reaches behind him, but there’s nobody there. Hannibal and his pity are not waiting.  
  
‘I know how you feel,’ Will says quietly and he does. He understands so vividly it scalds him. Jack turns, looks at Will and Will has to look away. ‘But I need distance, Jack. I need time to get myself together.’  
  
Jack clicks his tongue. ‘How much distance? For how long?’  
  
‘I don’t know,’ Will says, toeing the edge. It’s a risk, to bring it up now. But Will feels like the odds for barter may never tip to his favour anyway. ‘Until it stops hurting?’  
  
They look at each other across the office. Will forces himself to keep Jack’s gaze, tries not to shiver inside from the things he sees there. Perhaps he should’ve asked Hannibal to stay after all. Jack walks over, reaches out and takes Will’s shoulder. It’s the most they ever touch and Will tries to resist shrugging Jack off.  
  
‘It doesn’t stop, Will,’ Jack says and Will shakes his head. ‘But you will learn to live with it. It’s all any of us can do.’  
  
‘I can’t, I can’t live with it,’ Will says and he pulls away. Unmoors himself and floats. ‘Not when I know he’s still out there.’  
  
The room goes cold. Quite suddenly, and Will shivers.  
  
‘Will,’ Jack says, warning. ‘Please don’t.’  
  
‘It wasn’t suicide, Jack,’ Will says anyway and Jack groans loudly. ‘You know I’m right! You have to know I’m right!’  
  
‘You are losing yourself to this and it has to stop!’ Jack suddenly bellows, his voice flooding the room like water and Will jumps, surprised from the volume. The door opens suddenly behind them and Will knows it’s Hannibal- he doesn’t have to look.  
  
‘Will?’ Hannibal says gently, walking up behind and he puts his hand on the back of Will’s neck. Will waves him off, stepping away.  
  
‘Listen to me, Jack!’ Will pleads, rounding the chairs to follow where Jack is retreating to his side of the desk. ‘The water in the bathtub. Why would she fill the bathtub and then slit her throat?’  
  
‘She’s not the only person to change their mind about how they wanted to die at the last moment, Will,’ Jack says, still loud and Hannibal comes closer. Silent warning, but Jack doesn’t heed it. ‘She was a disturbed young woman with a history of violence in her life.’  
  
‘You don’t know that,’ Will snaps, defensive.  
  
‘Whatever violence she may have committed herself hardly matters when her father was a cannibal,’ Jack says crudely and Hannibal touches Will’s shoulder again, making Will realise that he’s leaning forward for a fight. ‘She couldn’t take it, what he did to her or what he made her do, or any of it.’  
  
‘Abigail wasn’t like that,’ Will says and Hannibal’s grip on his shoulder tightens. ‘She wouldn’t have done it like this, even if she were to do it.’  
  
‘You’re crying murder because you don’t like the method?’  
  
‘She loved her father,’ Will says and tries to keep the bitterness down as he says it. ‘But she couldn’t forgive him. If she wouldn’t forgive him then she wouldn’t have given him this.’  
  
‘And what should she have done, Will?’ Jack says, slamming a hand down on the desk. Will doesn’t flinch this time but Hannibal steps closer. Will puts an arm out, keeping him back. ‘Come to you? Tell you how she was feeling? Tell Hannibal? Tell Alana? Of course she should’ve but she didn’t and I understand that it’s hard but we can’t undo that for her.’  
  
‘It makes no sense!’ Will pleads and Hannibal says his name, imploring. Will ignores him. ‘There isn’t enough evidence for any of it to make sense.’

Jack speaks like a man at the end of his patience. ‘She killed herself the same way her father would’ve killed her. That’s not enough for you?’  
  
‘She used a grape knife,’ Will says and Jack just frowns at him, confused. ‘Why would she even have that, Jack? If it was for her father she would’ve used his knife.’  
  
‘The knife he used on her?’

‘Exactly. But she didn’t. Almost the same but-‘ Will stops because it feels like something has just clicked to place inside of him. ‘But not exactly.’

Will turns on the spot, slipping out of Hannibal’s grasp and keeps walking until he reaches the wall. It’s cool behind him, the edges of framed degrees biting his shoulders. Hannibal approaches him, hand out and speaking softly. Will doesn’t hear him  
  
Of course. _Of course._ How could he have been so stupid?

‘The negative to see the positive,’ Will repeats to himself and Hannibal’s hand withers away from him like something gone without sun. Years later, _years,_ and Will feels like he’s been walking with his eyes covered this whole time until now. ‘Just like Cassie Boyle was almost the same. And Marissa Schur- almost but not quite.’

Jack has gone very, very quiet and Hannibal very still.

‘They’re copying him,’ Will realises to himself. ‘They’re copying Garret Jacob-Hobbs.’

‘Stop,’ Jack says firmly, but Will barely hears him. Every image slots so neatly together. It feels like something inevitable. ‘Stop for just a moment. Are you telling me that you think Abigail Hobbs was murdered by-?’ 

‘By the Copycat Killer,’ Will replies and he knows it can’t be anything else but this. Jack takes a heavy breath through his nose. Hannibal says nothing. Will looks away, hands together like in prayer.

‘Why would the Copycat Killer, who hasn’t resurfaced in four years want Abigail Hobbs dead now?’ Jack asks as Hannibal still hasn’t said anything. Will won’t look at him, instead focuses on the opposite wall.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know why now, she can’t have-‘ And then Will realises. He realises and it sinks inside of him. Once he says it becomes true. ‘Because she knew who he is. She knew who the Copycat is.’  
  
‘How could she know that?’ Jack asks and the answer splits inside Will like bone.  
  
‘Because she knew everything, all along,’ Will says and he balls his hands into fists. ‘She knew about her father. She knew.’

When Will looks over, Jack looks like he might roar, just scream and Will deeply understands that himself, as right now Will feels like if he opens his mouth again he may never stop the howl that boils up inside of him.  
  
Will finally looks at Hannibal.

A very small part of who Abigail used to be is gone now, because now Will sees the truth of it. And now he’s taken that from Hannibal, too. Hannibal is looking at him but they’re not really seeing each other. Hannibal is shuttered, carefully manicured so Will can’t read him and Will knows he’s brought them somewhere Hannibal has never wanted them to be.  
  
_You knew,_ Will realises as well. Hannibal blinks and Will’s heart breaks.  
  
Hannibal had known the truth of her all along and he’d never told Will. The two of them had never told him, locking him behind a door.

‘So she knew who the Copycat is?’ Jack asks and this is close to what Jack has always thought, Will knows. Jack has always suspected Abigail, has always seen what Will couldn’t it seems. ‘Do you think she knew him personally, maybe like a friend?’

‘I- I don’t know,’ Will says honestly before swallowing around himself. ‘But I think so. I think she did.’

‘And he killed her.’

‘Yes. He lured her back to the house and killed her there.’

‘Why now?’ Jack asks and Will is wondering the same thing. ‘If she’s known since the beginning then why did he only decide to get rid of her now?’

Will flinches from the way Jack says _rid of._ Like Abigail was something to be jettisoned, a loose end. ‘Something must’ve changed. Maybe she decided she didn’t want to keep his secret anymore.’  
  
Abigail had spent so long keeping other people’s secrets.

‘Will,’ Hannibal says and Jack jumps, as though just noticing that Hannibal is still here. ‘That is enough.’  
  
‘But-!’  
  
‘You are connecting murders that had no previous connection,’ Hannibal says sternly, tossing his jacket onto one of the chairs. Will watches it land there, freezing at Hannibal’s sudden lack of composure. ‘You are venturing into the paranoid to look for a solution to something that is not even a question.’  
  
‘He killed her, Hannibal,’ Will says and Hannibal’s chin tilts, his eyes dark. Always so dark. ‘He killed her and left her to drown.’  
  
‘And let’s say you are right, what will he do to you if you pursue this?’ Hannibal asks tightly and Will is surprised, to hear the anger in Hannibal’s voice. ‘No. I will not stand for it.’  
  
Will challenges him. ‘You can’t stop me.’  
  
‘You are seeing things that aren’t there,’ Hannibal says and he strides forward, takes Will’s face with both hands and presses. Pins Will to the wall and Will lets him. ‘Don’t follow her footsteps, Will.’  
  
‘Or what?’  
  
‘Or I will lose you,’ Hannibal says quietly, perhaps so Jack won’t hear. Hannibal’s palms are cool on Will’s cheek. ‘I won’t let you.’  
  
‘I can’t let her life be for nothing.’  
  
Then it’s just murder.  
  
‘I don’t care about anyone’s life but yours, Will.’

Will sucks in a breath. ‘Not even Abigail’s?’  
  
‘No,’ Hannibal says fiercely. ‘Not even when she had it.’  
  
Will thinks he’ll sink to the floor if Hannibal lets him go. ‘Don’t you understand? Don’t you _see?_ It has to be this. This has to be the answer.’  
  
‘Does it?’ Hannibal asks and he steps in close, their chests almost touching. ‘What makes you so sure?’  
  
‘What makes you so blind?’ Will counters and Hannibal’s brow furrows. ‘You knew the truth before I ever did.’  
  
‘I only knew what she told me.’  
  
‘Why did she tell you?’ _And not me,_ hangs unsaid, but Will knows Hannibal hears it anyway.  
  
‘She always wanted you to love the best of her, Will,’ Hannibal says and Will looks at Hannibal’s lips, looks at the words that come. ‘So do that. Honour that.’  
  
‘You don’t believe me…’ Will trails off as he speaks and Hannibal opens his mouth, looks for a moment like he might apologise. But he doesn’t. ‘How could you not believe me?’  
  
Hannibal doesn’t answer that. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Will’s forehead, before he retreats. He releases Will, steps back and turns his back. Will watches the skin of his husband ripple, watches as Hannibal tailors himself around whatever it is he wants to say.  
  
‘I cannot face this, Will,’ Hannibal says, with his back still turned. ‘I will not.’  
  
‘What do you mean?’ Will asks but he already suspects. Like guessing shapes in clouds. Hannibal turns and looks at him. He brings his hands together and hides his wedding ring.  
  
‘I won’t stand by just to watch you lose yourself,’ Hannibal says and Will feels something clap inside like thunder. It’s fear. Acid and roiling in Will’s stomach suddenly. ‘If you want this, then you may have it. But I will not follow you to this pit of bones just to chase ghosts.’  
  
‘You’re giving me an ultimatum?’ Will asks, baffled. Jack steps in, voice clear and reasonable.  
  
‘Hannibal, you can’t-’  
  
‘Yes,’ Hannibal says, cutting across Jack and Will feels it like a blow. ‘I feel I must.’  
  
‘You really don’t believe me,’ Will says, devastated. ‘I thought you would believe me.’  
  
‘It cannot be true, Will,’ Hannibal says and Will rocks on his feet, feeling dizzy. ‘I was Abigail’s guardian and she my charge. I have a duty towards her and her memory and that duty is also my responsibility. I will not surrender it, not to this madness.’  
  
‘I’m not trying to surrender my responsibility!’ Will says desperately and there it is again. That coin toss in Hannibal’s eye, that glint. Remorse. ‘But this can’t- you have to see! Why can’t you see it?’  
  
‘Because it isn’t there, Will,’ Hannibal says firmly and he turns to Jack. ‘Do you believe this, Jack?’  
  
Will looks to Jack, waits for Jack to agree because Jack must but Jack doesn’t. Not straight away and it’s enough for everything to crumble.  
  
‘No,’ Will says quietly, then again. Louder. ‘No, no. Jack, you _know_ I’m right about this!’  
  
‘I don’t know what to think,’ Jack says and he’s looking down at his hands on the desk. Jack hunches his shoulders, grits his teeth and Will suddenly realises he’s lost the fight. ‘Except that- Hannibal, I think you’re right. I was wrong.’  
  
‘No, Jack-’  
  
‘You need a break, Will,’ Jack says, looking at Will across the room with concern. ‘As of right now you are on bereavement leave. Go home. I think you both need it.’  
  
Will looks at Hannibal, waits for Hannibal to do something- _anything-_ to undo this but he doesn’t. He just stands there, with his surety and his love and Will flinches back, unable to look at it any longer. Of everyone, all the people Will had expected to fight about this, he had never thought of Hannibal.  
  
‘Why?’ Will asks and Hannibal comes close again. Touches Will’s chin with two fingers. ‘Why are you doing this?’  
  
‘I know you don’t understand,’ Hannibal replies, fingers slipping under Will’s chin and tilting him. Will goes, always follows Hannibal’s direction because it feels like walking down the path to home. ‘But you will. I couldn’t protect Abigail, but I can protect you.’  
  
Will doesn’t think that’s true. ‘I don’t think it’s me you’re protecting.’  
  
‘It’s part of you,’ Hannibal says, trailing his finger now down Will’s throat. ‘A part I will not release until it is decided for me.’  
  
Hannibal looks into Will’s eyes, swallows the grief in them.  
  
‘Am I released, Will?’  
  
Blackmail. It’s blackmail. Follow Abigail and lose Hannibal. Leave her and keep him. Will wonders if he will ever forgive Hannibal for this. Perhaps that is their future now- Hannibal will blame Will for Abigail’s death and Will will blame Hannibal for their life.

Will still hasn't answered, but he lets Hannibal take his hand.   
  
'Come,' Hannibal says, almost kind. 'Come home and we shall make a decision.'  
  
Will just nods and lets himself be led. None of it matters. Hannibal knows as well as Will does that there really isn't a choice.


	11. Hannibal Lecter: One Day Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the all the lovely comments! And thank you, maydei, for rec’ing. That was so kind ♡
> 
> I’ll reply to everyone as soon as I can, I’m just travelling up north for a bit!

**One Day Gone**

 

Hannibal is awake when Alana leaves.

He hears her leave the apartment quietly, conscious of him no doubt. He waits for her footsteps to fade before he rises. He dresses and neatens himself, taking his coat as he walks through Alana’s living room towards the balcony. He hovers close to her long curtains, looks down. He can still see the FBI tail at the other side of the street- Nissan Altima, silver. Jack wants it particularly quiet.

If Hannibal is being followed then there is no chance of attempting to solidify his alibi. Hannibal can only hope the vendors of the market saw someone similar. Without that task, however, Hannibal is now free to pursue his other.

Fire stairway and down to the basement, service exit at the back. It’s Hannibal’s best option, but there is of course the  possibility Jack has more than one tail assigned. Unlikely procedure, but perfectly in character for Jack. Hannibal goes to Alana’s closet and takes an umbrella of hers instead of his own- a cheap, black pop-up affair. It’ll at least give him an extra chance if someone is looking out for his own large grey one.

The basement is an easy deadbolt. Hannibal slips through without trouble. There are cameras in the hall, but getting a warrant for them will be time-consuming and the need will have passed by the time Jack or his lackeys notice. Outside the side exit, Hannibal sees no signs of any further followers. He pops the umbrella for the snow and walks down Park Biddle Avenue towards the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. It’ll be easy to get a taxi from there. Hannibal has cash- his cards are no doubt being watched.

Hannibal waves one down and has it bring him out of the city centre. The driver turns the radio up when Hannibal refuses to do more than answer politely but minimally to his conversation, playing up a French accent for the driver to think him identifiably foreign but the wrong kind for suitable deniability. They arrive at Penn Station and Hannibal leaves the taxi to walk through the parked cars.

He’s had a car parked here for the last few weeks. He moves it every three or so months. Cash bought, licence plate changed and boot packed with three extra canisters of petrol and two bags. One for him and one for Will. Not that Will knows about any of it, of course. It has always been a last ditch resort, so to speak.

Hannibal has never thought before today he would need it for this. The few times he’s allowed himself consider the circumstance he was always resigned to the likelihood that Will would not be with him. But this is not what Hannibal has imagined.

Hannibal gets into the car and drives out of Baltimore, drives south-west towards Virginia.

Matthew Brown has only one living relative there, at the outskirts of Herndon. It will be a requirement of his release to live with them, Hannibal suspects. Attempted murder will carry at least two years’ probation, but Hannibal hopes they were stricter due to Will’s standing at the FBI. Hopes for a minimum of three. It’s his only option regardless, given the short time. If anything Brown’s family may be amenable to telling him where Brown is now and that will be enough.

The house is a terraced thing, flat-faced and panelled in white wood. There are wind shutters with rusted hinges and netted screens over the windows and door. It’s almost exactly what Hannibal suspected. He parks the car a little ways down and walks up. There is less snow, but the ground is wetter and the whole place is catching sunlight in strobes. That clear, brilliant sun only winter can give.

Hannibal doesn’t smile at his luck when the door opens after his knock. Yes, there is luck. But Hannibal is also prepared and this is reward.

Matthew Brown stands in the doorway, the uneven warp of the screen-door between them. He looks surprised at first, maybe a touch confused but he recovers well. He’s like a child, eagerly standing up to seem more adult. Hannibal doesn’t respond, only stands and waits to see what Brown might offer him.

‘I actually wondered if you’d come find me someday,’ Brown says at last. He’s shirtless, despite the cold and when he crosses his arms, Hannibal sees the edge of a tattoo on his under arm. Hannibal inclines his head.

‘I always keep my promises.’

‘Will said that,’ Brown says and Hannibal tenses, burns hot for a moment before he lets it go. Not now. Brown shrugs. ‘I saw it on the news. He’s missing. Is that why you’re here?

Hannibal doesn’t answer and Brown hops from one foot to the other. He’s a twitching animal- constantly shifting his weight, his gaze. It made Will uncomfortable, back then.

 _Like_ _a_ _pond_ _skater_ , Will would say as Brown paced the door by the visitors entrance at BSH. Will’s voice would swoop low, deep on the o like the sinkhole of bayou as he repeats the words of his Louisiana youth. Hannibal would tread water in Will’s voice for hours.

‘Do you want to come in, Doctor Lecter?’ Brown asks and Hannibal smiles, amiable.

‘If you would be so kind.’

Brown lets Hannibal in. It’s a small, bare living room with dated furniture. Curiously, there is a rather impressive stuffed pheasant on the sleeper-style mantelpiece. Hannibal puts his hands behind his back and turns to face Brown, staring out at where Brown lurks by the front door.

There is a small lamp on the shelves, but otherwise nothing Hannibal can see to be used as an immediate weapon. Either way, Hannibal slips the scalpel he has up his sleeve down.

‘Do you want help with the search? Is that why you’re here?’ Brown asks, already smirking because he must know that is not why Hannibal is here. Hannibal refuses to dignify it with a response, waiting for Brown to reveal more of himself.

Which Brown does with a huff. He’s as impatient as he is inelegant. ‘Or are you looking for something, Doctor Lecter?’

‘What would I look for out here?’ Hannibal asks cordially, but he gives the room a quick look over. Brown is not embarrassed, but it makes Hannibal feel better all the same. ‘I just feel we may have a mutual goal.’

‘Finding Will?’

‘Finding my husband, yes,’ Hannibal says with deliberate tone. The word _husband_ lands between the two of them and sits there, bald-faced. It has the desired effect as Brown’s eyes twitch, his neck pulses. He vibrates with a sudden insult. ‘I hope you forgive the intrusion, but you must also understand why I might come here.’

‘You think I took him?’ Brown says, barely asks.

‘I think we both know Will is a formidable person. It would take someone equally determined to move him from somewhere he did not wish to leave.’

‘What makes you think he didn’t want to leave?’ Brown asks and Hannibal tightens his grip on the scalpel behind his back. ‘Some people don’t appreciate being cooped up, Doctor Lecter. Believe me, I know. I’ve locked enough doors on them.’

‘Even if that were true, I doubt he’d come here,’ Hannibal says, giving the room another look. Will would find the pheasant tacky, Hannibal thinks.

‘Did you kill him?’ Brown asks bluntly and Hannibal looks over to him, blinks once.

‘No,’ Hannibal answers. ‘Why would you ask?’

‘Guess you’re just that careless then,’ Brown says with a high voice, mocking. ‘At least if you killed him you’d know where he was.’

‘You continued writing your letters,’ Hannibal says coolly, ignoring that and going for wound. Brown purses his mouth. ‘I saw them in our recycling from where Will discarded them. Unopened.’

Brown’s jaw goes tight. ‘You know, you’re not half bad at it.’

‘At which?’

‘Lying,’ Brown says with a hiss. Hannibal tilts his head, curious. ‘You’ve got dark eyes. That helps you. But you can’t ever really hide it.’ Brown points to his own eyes. ‘Dilation. Dead giveaway, every time.’

Hannibal readjusts his stance slightly, adding more pressure to the ball of his foot. Ready to spring, if necessary.

‘What did you do with them?’ Brown asks, the muscles of his neck straining. ‘Did you read them?

Hannibal sees nothing to gain in lying now. ‘I saw no point in it. I was not interested in what you had to say.’

‘What about Will? Was he happy with you chucking his mail?’

‘I took initiative,’ Hannibal replies blithely. Brown scoffs.

‘So he didn’t even see them,’ Brown says, clearly annoyed by this. ‘Feeling insecure, Doctor Lecter?’

‘About you?’

‘You were certainly scared of something,’ Brown says and Hannibal feels a tremble of offence inside himself.

When Brown smiles, it’s a textbook curl of something sour. Like curdled milk and Hannibal feels his mouth bend in disgust. Something flashes in Brown’s eye, brief but vivid and he points an accusing hand at Hannibal across the room. He points with two fingers, like a child miming a gun and he bounces them rudely.

‘That’s it. That’s it right there,’ he says, suddenly livid. Then he collapses in on himself, laughing with a high-pitch and rocking on the balls of his bare feet. ‘That look on your face. You always have that look on your face. Blameful, you know? Like everyone around is some ant and you’re so above us. But you’re just a small bird, circling small prey. Like a little shrike.’

Hannibal shifts his arms, sets his weight again in case he needs to block but Brown doesn’t move more than a few steps to and fro.

‘I’m not like you,’ Brown says, holding both arms out. ‘And Will isn’t like you either.’

‘What are you like?’

Brown grins- it’s a mad thing. ‘A hawk.’

‘Hawks are solitary creatures. They prefer to fly high and alone,’ Hannibal points out, keeping his tone placid but Brown shivers as though shocked.

‘Didn’t stop you putting yours in a cage,’ he replies and Hannibal runs his thumb up the edge of the scalpel, imagining what it might be like to kill Brown so quick that his ugly sneer of a smile stays frozen on his face. Hannibal doesn’t think Will would like it though- Brown’s smile always made Will uneasy. ‘Is it any wonder he flew far, far away when his shrike left the nest?’

‘Do you know where Will is?’ Hannibal asks, losing patience. Brown clicks like a bird.

‘If I did, why would I tell you?’  
  
No, then, Hannibal thinks. 

‘We both want what’s best for Will,’ Hannibal says instead with a kindness he does not hold for Brown. ‘He needs to be home.’

‘With you?’ Brown scoffs and Hannibal bristles. Brown says and he tilts his head so he’s looking at Hannibal down his nose. ‘I never did get it. What Will saw in you.’

Hannibal doesn’t allow himself to rise to the bait. But he decides then that whatever else may happen, Brown is going to die. Hannibal will be sure of it.

‘You don’t deserve it,’ Brown says petulantly, head shaking. ‘The things Will can do. The things he can be.’

‘And you do?’ Hannibal says, not bothering to keep the disdain out. Hannibal smiles with no warmth. ‘Will is a predator with his sights on a meal mightier than you, Mister Brown. As it is, you wouldn’t even be worth picking out between his teeth.’

Hannibal tilts his head and Brown shrinks, like a flower wilting. Good, Hannibal thinks. He should be afraid.

‘I hope you never find him,’ Brown says darkly and Hannibal imagines cutting Brown’s tongue down the middle. Forked, like a snake. ‘Not unless he wants you to. And when he does, I hope he kills you.’

‘He’s my husband, Mister Brown,’ Hannibal says with pleasure. ‘It would be only his right.’

They’re interrupted by a knock on the door. Brown doesn’t turn to look, he keeps his eyes on Hannibal but Hannibal removes one his hands to incline towards it. There’s no need to be discourteous and Hannibal does not mind. Brown seems reluctant to turn his back, but he does and answers the door.

Hannibal is not surprised to see Jack Crawford here. Hannibal knew this would be their next port of call once they realised Hannibal had left Baltimore. After all, where else would Hannibal go?

Jack meets Hannibal’s eye across the room and something is different. Between now and last night , something has changed and Hannibal carefully moves his hands into his coat pockets to hide the scalpel. They’ve found something and whatever they’ve found, it’s made Jack look at Hannibal like that.

Will looked at Hannibal like that once. A cold stone behind his eye with the realisation of something Hannibal couldn’t undo. Hannibal thinks it was then, that moment a year ago. That was when Will stopped.

‘Mister Brown, my name is Jack Crawford and I’m an agent of the FBI,’ Jack says placidly to Brown and he taps the screen-door with a gloved finger. ‘May we come in? We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘About Will Graham?’ Brown asks as he lets Jack in. Behind him, there’s an agent Hannibal doesn’t know. A skinny man, early thirties like Will had been when Hannibal had first met him. Hannibal looks at Jack instead. ‘Seems to be a popular topic with me today.’

‘Doctor Lecter,’ Jack says, resigned and Hannibal nods to him. ‘Would you be alright waiting outside with my associate? We can take you back to Baltimore once I’m finished.’

Hannibal can’t reveal the car he used to get here so he simply agrees and follows the younger agent out of Brown’s house. The agent leads him over to Jack’s SUV, asks Hannibal if he’d like to sit inside out of the cold. Hannibal declines, preferring to watch the door and see what Jack might do. The agent says nothing more and stands at the curb, rubbing his bare hands against the chill.

It’s well over forty minutes in the cold by the time Jack leaves the house. He does not have Brown with him and Hannibal knows this means a negative turn for himself in this investigation, but he is pleased that Brown will not be somewhere Hannibal can’t get to him any time soon. Jack waves his associate off, who walks around to get into the passenger seat of the car. Hannibal and Jack wait on the footpath, sizing each other up.

‘What are you doing here, Hannibal?’ Jack asks, quietly as though they may be overheard.

‘You’re not surprised to see me,’ Hannibal points out and Jack sighs. It’s not quite as cold here, his breath doesn’t cloud. ‘You knew I would come.’

‘I hoped you wouldn’t. I know you want to find Will but this isn’t the way. Brown is a convicted felon who’s attacked you before. You’ve put yourself in danger and we both know Will wouldn’t want that. You should stay in Baltimore, in case Will comes back.’

‘Will isn’t coming back,’ Hannibal says and Jack goes hard all over. Hannibal touches his thumb to his ring finger in his pocket. ‘He needs to be brought back.’

‘You’re still convinced this is abduction?’

‘There is no other option,’ Hannibal says fiercely, more than intended but it has the effect of softening Jack, just slightly. Just slightly is all Hannibal needs.

‘Alana mentioned something about dissociative episodes in the last few months,’ Jack says, coaxes and Hannibal waits for him to finish the question. ‘That there are times Will isn’t himself.’

‘Will is always himself,’ Hannibal replies coolly, because on this Jack truly knows nothing. ‘What Alana means, I believe, is that Will can sometimes get lost in a dream. Or nightmare.’

‘Like sleepwalking?’

‘Of a kind. When we were first married, it was a symptom of stress.’ Hannibal fixes his eye on Jack’s and holds firm. ‘A way for his mind to retreat from the violence you placed in front of him. I believe it has only gotten worse in the last few months due to his illness.’

Jack chews his cheek. ‘The encephalitis you suspect?’

‘It affects his concentration and neural processes,’ Hannibal explains patiently and the airs drops suddenly. It’s going to rain, or possibly snow. Hannibal looks at the dark clouds overhead. ‘Will’s mind is unique, which means he is perhaps more susceptible to extreme bouts of disconnected thought. It also makes him vulnerable. We will need to find him quickly, Jack.’

‘You don’t think it’s possible Will might’ve left himself while he was-‘ Jack waves a hand. ‘Sleepwalking?’

Hannibal is insulted by the very notion. ‘Even asleep, Will knows where he is safe, Jack. I find it unlikely he would’ve wandered far from our home.’

Jack says nothing to that. He walks over to the SUV and opens the backseat door. ‘We best get back to looking then.’

‘So you’ve found nothing?’

Jack shakes his head, looks pointedly at Brown’s front door. ‘Not here, doctor.’

‘What about Matthew Brown?’ Hannibal asks him.

‘Don’t you worry about Matthew Brown,’ Jack says, trying to guide Hannibal into the car. Hannibal goes and Jack speaks before closing the door. ‘I’ve got ears to the ground.’

 

 

* * *

 

 

Back in Baltimore, Hannibal is still not allowed return to their home. He understands that Jack is being thorough, but when Jack says it’ll likely be the end of the week, Hannibal grows more concerned. He tells Jack he still hasn’t the key for the basement and declines Jack’s suggestion they break it down by force.

‘Will has delicate projects down there,’ Hannibal says as they drive down the street towards Alana’s apartment. ‘Boat motors and the like. I don’t want to do damage when there’s no cause.’

‘I understand that, doctor,’ Jack says over the _fum fum_ of the windscreen wipers. The snow has gotten heavier as they drove back to Maryland. ‘But I don’t have to explain to you the seriousness of this situation. We would be happier checking the whole house.’

‘I will call the locksmith,’ Hannibal says and he will. Soon.

Jack takes that silently and they approach Symphony Centre, but he swears under his breath as they come closer. There are people standing at the curb- vans parked, cameras set up. And Freddie Lounds stands at the centre like a beacon, verdant in a luminously green coat and under a zebra print umbrella. Hannibal looks at Jack- watches the way Jack is visibly thinking.

News has spread, it appears.

There is nothing to be done. Jack will only use the main entrance, so he and Hannibal step out of the SUV and start to walk up the path. The gaggle of reporters erupts at once, frothing almost with excitement at both Hannibal and Jack being in the one place.

_‘Doctor Lecter! Have you heard anything about Will?’_

_‘Lecter! Hey, Lecter! Is it true you were questioned as a suspect?’_

_‘Agent Crawford! Is Doctor Lecter under arrest? Are you escorting him?’_

Hannibal walks through the sweep of them with relative ease compared to Jack, who is constantly stopped and pecked at. Jack has taken from the car a  paper folder under his arm and a cheap plastic bag, black so Hannibal can’t see what’s inside. It has drawn every grasping hand towards it. Jack holds both tight to himself like a child as Hannibal leads the way. They are slow to, but the reporters do part for him as he walks.  

At the door to the foyer, Jack lets Hannibal in before him and then turns to the electric flurry of camera flashes and phones: ‘We will not be answering questions at this time. I ask you to respect Doctor Lecter’s privacy until the press release tomorrow.’

The reporters still shout as Jack closes the door with a firm bang, letting the electronic lock do the rest. They both walk to the lift, neither speaking. There is a very faint scent from the bag. Earthy and nearly lost to the plastic and chemical, but it’s there and Hannibal is curious about what Jack might’ve brought.

‘A press release?’ Hannibal asks at last, curious and Jack sighs heavily.

‘Can’t be helped now. We were hoping to stay on top of this,’ Jack explains, adjusting his grip on the bag. ‘It’s common for civilian disappearances to appeal to the public. But Will isn’t a civilian.’

‘He isn’t an agent either,’ Hannibal says tersely and Jack clenches his jaw so it clicks.

‘No, but he’s still an FBI official. We didn’t want to make an appeal, but things might turn worse for you if you don’t now.’

Hannibal raises his eyebrows, intrigued. ‘Worse? Worse in what way?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jack says to that and Hannibal leaves the point go. ‘But we’ll have to give the media something before it spirals. Which is the opposite of what I wanted, but be damned if there’s a way to keep Freddie Lounds’ mouth shut, because I sure as hell haven’t found it.’

‘Was there a reason we were avoiding making a statement? Surely, if it helps find Will then that’s all that matters.’

‘If someone took Will because he’s FBI, we don’t want to show our hand with how involved the bureau is. If they took him for something else then we don’t want to make him too hot. If the kidnappers feel he’s a sudden liability, they may take action to remedy that.’

The lift pings on the fourth floor. They are both silent as they walk out.

Hannibal uses the key Alana gave him to let them both in to the apartment down the hall. She is still not here, but her note from the morning is still on the kitchen island. She has been called away to Quantico to cover Will’s class and she has not found the dog. Pity, Hannibal thinks. He’s not sure he has the time to find both it and Will, but Will will be most unhappy if Hannibal doesn’t find it soon.

‘So Miss Lounds has put rhyme over reason once again,’ Hannibal says to Jack once they’ve settled. ‘I assume she was the first to broadcast that Will is missing.’

‘She been updating TattleCrime’s twitter and published an article this morning,’ Jack says, sounding weary. He removes his hat and puts it on Alana’s kitchen island. ‘I assume you haven’t seen it?’

Hannibal considers this. ‘I had more pressing concerns this morning. What did she write?’

‘Better not, doctor,’ Jack says and Hannibal wonders if this kindness or strategy. ‘Anything Freddie Lounds thinks is worth publishing isn’t going to help you right now.’

Interesting. Hannibal will read it as soon as Jack leaves.

‘I brought this for you,’ Jack says, holding the bag out with his other hand and Hannibal takes it with interest. ‘Lab is done with it.’

It’s Will’s anniversary gift, as Hannibal suspected. Hannibal takes the horrendous plastic away and lets the box sit in his hands. It’s already opened, which Hannibal is irrationally bothered by, but otherwise it is perfectly intact. Hannibal peels back the paper and looks inside.

The woody smell is from a sheaf of wheat, butter yellow and beautifully twined. Hannibal reaches for the note first though. Just seeing the sheaf is enough.

 _Why_ _should_ _I_ _blame_ _her_ _that_ _she_ _filled_ _my_ _days_ _with_ _misery,_ Hannibal reads silently to himself and he puts the box on the counter, only to touch Will’s handwriting. Will always insists on cheap ballpoints. 

‘I was hoping you could tell me what it means,’ Jack says and Hannibal’s displeasure must show despite himself as Jack hastily adds; ‘We think it’ll help us construct a good timeline for what Will was doing in the days leading up to yesterday. We weren’t sure if it was a song, or-‘

‘A poem,’ Hannibal corrects, looking down to Will’s writing again. ‘No Second Troy, by William Butler Yeats. 1916. Incidentally, the same year of his country’s doomed rising.’

Hannibal turns the card and it’s blank there. There must be nothing else hidden or Jack wouldn’t have given it back. No- Jack needs Hannibal to solve the riddle for him.

‘Right,’ Jack says, not even bothering to feign interest in that. ‘Is the poem special to you? Seems an odd choice to put in an anniversary card.’

‘That would depend on the marriage’s perspective of romance,’ Hannibal points out, and he puts the card in his trouser pocket.

Hannibal takes the sheaf out and turns it around in his fingers. It is not a new purchase. In fact, it is one of Hannibal’s own from his collection of decorations for the table. Will must’ve known something was about to happen yesterday and he took this from the dining room cabinets and left it for Hannibal to find.

Hannibal looks at the box itself. That is harder to explain. If Will had the time to wrap it, why didn’t he have the time to call Hannibal for help?

‘So he wrote you a love note?’ Jack asks, clearly sceptical. Hannibal can’t blame him. Yeats is not quite the first choice for successful romance.

‘It would seem so,’ Hannibal replies, deciding to play ignorance. He stares at the wall of Alana’s kitchen, mind wandering. He’s tempted to close his eyes and let himself drift through the halls of a place well-remembered. Hannibal wonders if Will is lost there, too.

‘I thought you said you guys didn’t do things like that?’

‘Evidently Will changed his mind,’ Hannibal says and he puts the sheaf back into its box. He looks over to Jack. ‘What have you brought with you?’

Jack takes the folder over to the island. ‘Photos from the crime scene. I’d like to go over some things with you.’

‘Will it help?’

‘We believe so.’

‘What else is being done now to find Will? Have you learned anything?’

‘We have reason to believe that wherever Will is, he was taken by force. Like you suggested,’ Jack says but Hannibal knows that’s not all. ‘We’ve got a statewide search in both Maryland and Virginia.’

‘If you are not considering Matthew Brown, then is there another reason to suspect Virginia?’

‘It’s where Will works,’ Jack says with a shrug. ‘If the abduction is motivated by that. Also he testified in a high number of cases tried in the Virginian courts.’

They fall quiet then because Hannibal has let himself go down the wrong hall in his mind.

He imagines Will tied up somewhere. Probably somewhere dark, somewhere cold. Will so greatly dislikes both and he will be trying to keep himself calm as his sits in the stomach of it. He’s afraid, Hannibal suspects. And whoever has taken him has no idea what Will is, what Will is capable of when afraid and Hannibal feels something coil unevenly inside, like oil on water.

Hannibal feels the viscosity of this feeling in his chest like a weight. An unruly mix of concern for Will and also… exhilaration.

Will is strong. Hannibal hopes he will last long enough for Hannibal to come and for Hannibal to see what Will will do.

‘I know this is hard for you,’ Jack says at last, perhaps taking Hannibal’s silence as suffering. Hannibal supposes it is suffering, in its own way. ‘When I lost Bella-’

‘Will is not dead.’

Hannibal speaks without meaning to, but some part of him cannot bear to even consider any other alternative than Will being alive.

‘I understand what you’re saying and I appreciate it, Jack,’ Hannibal says and he truly means it. Hannibal puts his hands on the island and balances his weight there, head bowed. ‘But I haven’t lost my husband. Not yet.’

‘Hannibal,’ Jack says and Hannibal looks to him, looks at the hard look on Jack’s face. ‘We’re not giving up. Not even close. But I just think- I just feel you should prepare yourself.’

‘What have you found?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What,’ Hannibal repeats, less patient. ‘Have you found?’

Jack looks very much like he’d rather do anything than answer Hannibal right now. But Hannibal needs to know and he is not above pushing for an answer on this. It would be funny, perhaps if Hannibal were someone else in this situation, to see the irony in Jack withholding information about Hannibal’s spouse.

As it is, Hannibal is only impatient.

‘We suspect there may have been an altercation.’

‘You found blood?’

Jack breathes deep through his nose. ‘There is evidence that Will has been- seriously injured.’

‘Injured?’ Hannibal questions, frowning. ‘How seriously? Do you think fatally?’

‘Not exactly,’ Jack deflects and Hannibal grows impatient. ‘We can’t say for certain. But we did a luminol sweep of your home and we discovered a significant amount of blood in the kitchen.’ Hannibal tries to hold himself very still as he absorbs that. ‘Our lab says it’s between two or three pints.’

Class 2 haemorrhage, Hannibal classifies automatically in his mind and he looks away at the kitchen wall. Not fatal in itself, but it could easily be if left untreated. ‘And it’s Will’s?’

‘We haven’t confirmed with DNA yet, it’ll take another few hours. But we have confirmed it to be Will’s blood type.’

B positive. Fewer than 9% of the US population have that blood type. It’s not completely impossible that both Will and his attacker were the same blood type, but it’s unlikely and Hannibal is not pleased with this development. This changes things; it means at best Hannibal has less time than he thought and at worst it’s too late altogether. Hannibal is not yet sure what he will do if it’s too late.

‘So he was attacked in the kitchen,’ Hannibal says and he comes back to himself, back to Jack. He needs information and he needs Jack to leave once he has it. ‘Did you find a weapon?’

‘We-‘ Jack doesn’t finish, as they are both interrupted by the front door being opened.

Alana stands there, hair close to her head with snow damp and shiny boots. Her face is red from the cold and her bright eyes flicker between Hannibal and Jack quickly. She crosses over towards Hannibal, closing the door behind her and Hannibal smiles at her.

‘Hannibal, how’re you feeling?’ she asks, straight for concern and she touches his arm gently. She looks him up and down, before glancing at Jack. ‘Have you been out? Did you get past the reporters okay?’

‘They were not there this morning when I left.’

‘It’s that Freddie Lounds,’ Alana says, softly distasteful. Even this she handles with grace. ‘If it wasn’t for that callous stuff she wrote half of them wouldn’t be here.’

Hannibal shakes his head. ‘I have not read it.’

‘Don’t. It’s not even worth the 4G to load it,’ Alana says firmly, before addressing Jack; ‘Have you found anything?’

‘Not yet,’ Jack says and Alana looks like she might question further before deciding against it. She is always careful never to take priority in a conversation from the most involved party and she lingers close to Hannibal now. ‘But we’re doing everything we can.’

‘They’ve found blood,’ Hannibal says to her and her eyes go wide.   
  
Jack steadies himself. ‘I don’t know if-‘  
  
‘Alana has a right to know,’ Hannibal says and Alana gives him a weak smile in thanks. ‘She is Will’s friend, same as you. If not more so.’  
  
‘There are some things we might better discuss alone, Doctor Lecter.’  
  
Hannibal knows that Jack thinks that. But Hannibal’s list of allies is short, and will only get shorter if Jack continues the line of inquiry Hannibal suspects. He needs Alana in his corner- she is a strong reference of character and her presence oozes temperance, which means anything Jack may imply Alana will defend Hannibal from. Without Will, Hannibal will need someone else to defend him.   
  
‘I would prefer to have Alana here,’ Hannibal replies honestly and Jack hovers, weighs his options. If Jack declines, Hannibal will be forced to call his lawyer and things will get unpleasant quickly. ‘Tell us what you have found out so far, Jack.’  
  
When Jack decides, it is as though the thought of it has settled him down like bedrock. He turns hard on his feet and holds his hands together in front of it. He is the picture of FBI authority.

‘The evidence right now suggests that Will was attacked in the kitchen and seriously injured there. Possibly stabbed, but our lab is more inclined to think blunt force trauma. If that is the case, then from the amount of blood found at the scene-‘  
  
‘Will is likely dead,’ Hannibal finishes aloud, if only to say it. It’s the first time he’s really thought of it as a truly likely result. Alana touches his arm, holds onto him tight there. Hannibal frowns, remembering the state of the house from last night; ‘Did you find blood in the study?’  
  
Jack shakes his head. ‘Are you sure you’re up for having this conversation now?’  
  
Alana is quiet beside him, but her grip is so firm it betrays how afraid she is. Her worry for Will soaks the air like a perfume.   
  
‘Tell me about the study,’ Hannibal says and there is no room for indecision.   
  
‘There’s the impression a struggle went down in there,’ Jack says. He opens the folder he’s brought with him on the island, takes out a photograph of the chaise in the study. Jack points at it.

‘That’s a heavy piece of furniture. Antique, right?’  
  
‘French,’ Hannibal says which isn’t really an answer. The chaise has a low back, curved like a wave and the wooden frame is gilded in something gold. The cushions are a deep, moss green. It sits low to the ground, with short lion’s feet.   
  
‘It would take some strength to move it; someone would have to push low. Or have shoved someone hard enough that they’d hit it with enough force,’ Jack explains, pulling out another photograph.

It’s of the tea table next to the chaise and the wooden candlestick that sits on it. It’s beautifully carved, lathed down until smooth and incised with intricate flowers and thicker on top than the bottom.   
  
‘Is the candlestick French, too?’  
  
‘Will chose it,’ Hannibal says and that does surprise Jack, Hannibal can tell. ‘He said it reminded him of cornflowers.’  
  
Hannibal has only seen cornflowers in the Mid-Atlantic region in the US, having never wandered overly far. Will described them as being like a carpet in the South in spring. A plush plume of violet in Cajun gardens. It is something Hannibal has imagined, made space for in his memory palace for Will to walk through.  
  
‘Strange that the chaise moved with that amount of force, but it didn’t knock this table over,’ Jack says and he watches Hannibal very carefully. Hannibal doesn’t show anything, he doesn’t even try for confusion. ‘There are other inconsistencies as well.’  
  
‘The papers,’ Hannibal offers. He helps himself, moving aside other photographs to find what he needs. He finds a one of the exam papers on the floor, the small yellow makers alongside them.  ‘They are out of order. If they fell from the table the way the scene would have us believe, then they would still be roughly in page order.’  
  
‘Right,’ Jack says and it’s clear he’s decided to stop being careful. ‘Those hours you were running errands yesterday; you didn’t stop home did you? Spot of housework, something like that?’  
  
‘No,’ Hannibal says and Jack shrugs, keeping his tone light.  
  
‘You keep that kitchen of yours pretty spotless.’  
  
Hannibal doesn’t look at Alana, though he can feel her go tense. The whole room buzzes with the potential for what comes next and Hannibal relishes it while it is still just that. Things are starting now.   
  
‘Lavender.’  
  
‘What?’  
  
‘It was faint; the scent from the hydrogen peroxide was still so strong. But I thought I could smell it. Lavender. The hand-soap at our kitchen sink,’ Hannibal says but when he moves through the images and finds a picture of the kitchen, he sees the small bottle for the soap is missing. Hannibal wishes he had checked the house himself before. ‘They used the hand soap in an attempt to clean up.’  
  
Will would never be so careless. Hannibal is almost impressed that someone so inept as to use the wrong soap is proving elusive enough for neither Hannibal nor Jack to think of where to look. Not that Hannibal has much chance, though he tries not to feel too much resentment towards Alana and her kindness.

‘There’s been a significant loss of blood. It would’ve been quite the mess,’ Hannibal says and when Alana speaks, and she catches both of them by surprise. Jack had likely forgotten she’s there.  
  
‘That doesn’t mean Will isn’t alright,’ she says gently, walking around the kitchen with purpose. She stands at the end of the island and places her hands there, composed. ‘Will is strong, you know that.’  
  
‘Did you find a weapon?’ Hannibal asks again and Jack shakes his head. Hannibal thinks. ‘There was no blood in the study.’   
  
Jack doesn’t answer that either.  
  
‘You’re looking for a body,’ Hannibal says at last, after no one speaks for a few moments. ‘You’re treating this as a potential homicide.’  
  
‘We’re not giving up on Will,’ Jack says clearly with determination. ‘We’re screening hospitals, pharmacies. Anywhere he might go if was injured.’  
  
‘Or where the person who injured him might,’ Hannibal says and Alana looks at Jack- a warning, Hannibal thinks.  
  
‘Someone hurt Will. They hurt him enough to spill over two pints of blood in your kitchen,’ Jack explains and he waits for Hannibal to say something, to get ahead but Hannibal says nothing. ‘And then they cleaned it up.’  
  
Alana takes her hands away and steps slightly back. Her voice shakes, just a bit, when she speaks; ‘Why would they clean the blood but not the study?’  
  
Jack holds Hannibal’s gaze. ‘We have reason to believe the scene in the study was staged. For the most part, if not entirely.’  
  
‘That makes no sense. Why stage another crime scene to cover up a crime scene?’ Alana asks, sounding confused. Hannibal leaves the photographs on the counter, stands to his full height.   
  
‘Crime scene with no blood, no body, suggests kidnapping,’ Jack says carefully. Hannibal keeps looking at the photographs- waiting. ‘Tells us to look at people outside of the house. Blood in the kitchen tells us something different.’  
  
Hannibal sighs. ‘Get to it, Jack. While you still have the chance.’  
  
‘Jack…’ Alana says weakly, but Jack ignores her. Jack knows after today, the next time he speaks to Hannibal will be with a lawyer between them.   
  
‘How was your marriage, doctor?’ Jack asks and Hannibal blinks at Jack’s use of the past tense. Nasty, but effective.  
  
‘Our marriage is as it always is,’ Hannibal says diplomatically and his hands move. He’s touching his ring finger, mirroring. He’s seen Jack does this himself sometimes, when he thinks of Bella and her smile. When the guilt hits him.   
  
‘You guys fight? Will isn’t the easiest person to live with. God knows I came close to shouting at him myself.’  
  
‘We have our disagreements, but nothing significant,’ Hannibal says and Jack nods, but doesn’t believe him. ‘Perhaps even less than most couples.’  
  
‘That’s not what I hear,’ Jack says. ‘I hear things have been pretty rough. Quantico says they’ve had more than one request from Will to use the bunks instead of heading home. But then Will never uses it after the request, because his husband has come to collect him.’  
  
Jack has been very busy in the last few hours.   
  
‘Will’s friends paint a similar picture,’ Jack continues, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘Late nights in bars, camping out long hours to go fishing. And you coming to get him from wherever he may be, every time. That’s some dedication, most husbands just wait at home.’  
  
‘Will is unwell. It’s my responsibility to take him home.’  
  
‘You must take it very seriously,’ Jack says. ‘I have witness testimony telling us about an incident last week.’  
  
So very busy, it seems.  
  
‘You were quite insistent,’ Jack continues, making a show of nonchalance. He leans against the counter, relaxed but Hannibal can see that inside Jack is breathing fire like a furnace. The air sparks with it. ‘There was an argument, right?’  
  
‘Of a sorts.’  
  
‘Of a sorts,’ Jack repeats, nodding. ‘Witnesses have you holding Will by the neck. Would you say that’s an accurate way to describe a  _sort_  of argument?’  
  
‘It was not as it appeared. It was a grounding gesture. Will was disassociating at the time.’  
  
‘I thought you said that it’s not disassociating?’ Jack questions and Hannibal tucks his tongue at his own misstep. ‘Sleepwalking, you said. Are you telling me Will was sleepwalking at work?’  
  
‘It is entirely possible,’ Hannibal says and he glances at Alana. She’s pale, but hasn’t moved. She’s angry with Jack. Hannibal needs her angry with Jack. ‘You haven’t been around, Jack. You have no idea the seriousness of his illness.’  
  
‘But not serious enough for a hospital?’  
  
‘I could not force him.’  
  
‘I doubt that you didn’t have it in you to persuade him though,’ Jack says, eyes bright with the hunt. ‘You’ve always had a knack for it.’  
  
Hannibal taps one finger on the counter. ‘Persuading Will, you mean?’  
  
‘I’d argue you have it down to art form.’

‘Jack, please,’ Alana implores gently. It’s exactly what Hannibal needs her to do. ‘We’re all on the same side here. We should be working together.’  
  
‘You know, in law enforcement you hear the same things over and over. Small restrictions over an ill spouse, a nervous spouse. Real protective types,’ Jack prompts over Alana and Hannibal does show teeth this time and it’s not a smile. ‘And still, no one expects it. No one thinks too look until it’s too late.’  
  
‘I don’t like what you’re implying, Jack,’ Hannibal says and it’s the closest he’s come to raising his voice so far in all of this.  
  
‘I’m not implying anything. I’m just asking about your marriage.’  
  
‘Will is my husband,’ Hannibal says but he knows Jack has seen plenty people hurt their husbands. ‘And my friend. We support each other.’  
  
‘So you didn’t know anything about the bag Will had packed? Passport, cash. All ready to go and shoved in the coal chest.’  
  
This must be completely fabricated. Whoever has taken Will has gone to great lengths. Must’ve searched the house for his passport. Hannibal is almost impressed- almost.

But if they moved so much then the house must have something. Something to prove they were there.   
  
‘Are you suggesting Will wants to leave me?’ Hannibal asks and his mouth twitches again. Another non-smile. ‘He doesn’t.’  
  
‘He’s not here.’  
  
‘He wouldn’t,’ Hannibal says, more firmly.  Alana is teetering, edging closer again and Hannibal adds a small breath to tempt her comfort. He’s glad of her, really. This would be more difficult without. ‘We were facing the same challenges of any marriage, but I can promise you that Will is not the type to steal away into the night.’  
  
This is true. If they are to end it would not be that, or this. Hannibal won’t let it be this. Some violence can only be committed by those who’ve earned it.   
  
‘Maybe not the same challenges,’ Jack says to him. ‘Critical illness is the kind of thing that can blow any marriage apart. You know it nearly did it to mine.’ Jack is so clumsy, in his attempts that Hannibal nearly recoils. ‘Especially when they’re not accepting help. No one would blame you if you were feeling a bit of resentment.’  
  
‘I’m a doctor myself, Jack.’  
  
‘Not supposed to be a doctor in your own home though, are you?’ Jack asks and Alana says his name tersely:  _Jack_. ‘Unless you and Will liked to play doctor?’  
  
‘Jack!’ Alana says again, clearly mortified. ‘If you’re here to accuse Hannibal of something then I want it on the record that I don’t believe it.’  
  
Both Hannibal and Jack look to her, Hannibal trying to convey his gratitude and she sinks her shoulders when their eyes meet.   
  
‘I respect Hannibal,’ Alana says genuinely. ‘And I respect Will. He wouldn’t appreciate this, Jack. You should be out looking for him, not here trying to get some confession out of Hannibal.’  
  
Jack takes a long few seconds before talking again. Hannibal can almost see the way his mind switches track, the hard  _clunk_ of something changing course.   
  
‘Doctor Lecter,’ Jack says, all cool composure and Hannibal tilts his chin to look at Jack through his lashes. ‘Can you tell me if you and Will had any prenuptial agreement? Anything he might’ve agreed to that says he’d waived his right to maintenance in the event of separation?’  
  
‘No,’ Hannibal says and he sees the narrative spill out in front of, pouring like ink in pools. ‘There was no need. We shared everything.’  
  
‘So if he was to file for divorce he would be entitled to ask for fifty percent, or more, of your assets in spousal maintenance?’  
  
It’s a very ugly narrative. Base, even.  
  
‘That’s hardly equal, between the two of you, right?’ Jack presses on. ‘Will’s doing alright, but nothing compared to you. You’ve said yourself; your practice is pretty well established.’  
  
‘Are you trying to suggest I put my fortune over Will’s happiness?’ Hannibal knows that’s not it but he won’t do Jack’s job for him.  
  
‘Money can be a scary thing to lose. More so when you’ve never known hunger. 

‘I’ve known hunger,’ Hannibal says and the room goes quiet. ‘There’s much you do not know about me, Agent Crawford.’

‘I’d say that’s very true,’ Jack replies fiercely.

‘That’s enough,’ Alana says and she sounds stricken. Looking at her shows she’s near tears, voice wavering. ‘It’s more than enough. Jack, I want you to leave. Right now.’

‘Alana-’

‘No,’ she says, strict. ‘Enough.’

Hannibal and Jack exchange a long look.  

‘I’ll send someone to pick you up for the press tomorrow,’ Jack says to Hannibal, moving across the room. He replaces his hat, takes the photographs and neatly stacks them back into their folder. The island of the kitchen is a wide berth between all three of them, keeping them at distance. Jack leaves in silence, and Alana doesn’t move until she hears the front door shut with a firm click. 

‘Oh, Hannibal,’ Alana says and she throws her scarf down to the island counter. ‘Jack shouldn’t have said those things. He had no right.’

‘He is only doing his job. He has to ask these questions.’

‘It’s ugly,’ Alana says and Hannibal agrees with her. ‘If Will were here-’

Alana stops herself, hovers on the edge of something before she decides against it. Instead, she removes her coat with care and lays it across the counter like a body.

‘If Will were here he’d be so angry,’ Alana says as she turns to make coffee. Hannibal doesn’t think that’s true, but he doesn’t say so. ‘Where could he be, Hannibal?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ Hannibal says truthfully. ‘But he will be found.’ 

‘Hannibal,’ Alana says with her back is still turned as the coffee machine grinds. ‘Did we do enough?’ 

‘We’ve done everything we can.’

‘I don’t mean now.’

‘We cannot help anything but the now, Alana.’

‘We knew he was sick,’ Alana says, very carefully. ‘I knew he was sick. I knew something wasn’t right. I should’ve insisted more, made him see someone.’

This skirts the line of something Hannibal does not want her to engage in. ‘He could not be moved on it, Alana. You know this.’ 

‘We should’ve tried harder,’ Alana says firmly, turning to face him and Hannibal sees her tears are back. ‘The state he was in there’s no way he could’ve fought someone off. I don’t want to think about it. I know you don’t either, but Hanninal what-’ Alana stops, swallows slowly. ‘What if it’s too late? What if Jack doesn’t find what we want?’ 

‘Then we keep looking,’ Hannibal says, holding her gaze. Alana blinks and a tear catches in her lashes, not quite spilling. 

Hannibal waits, but when she still says nothing, he pushes for her. 

‘What is it, Alana?’  he says and she still doesn’t. ‘There’s clearly something you want to know.’ 

‘Fine,’ she replies stiffly, crossing her arms. ‘Have you told me everything?’

‘Everything I know.’

‘Evasive,’ Alana comments. ‘Did you know something like this would happen?’

‘No,’ Hannibal says with as much earnestness as he can. Alana does not thaw.

‘Jack didn’t take that with him,’ she says, inclining her head to the box Will’s anniversary gift had come in. ‘What is it?’ 

‘Will’s anniversary gift.’ 

Alana goes pale.

‘You don’t do anniversary gifts,’ she says quietly.

‘It seems Will changed his mind.’ 

‘Why would he change his mind?’ Alana’s eyes are light- blue and watery, like Will’s. They have always had an interesting amount in common, Hannibal feels.

Hannibal debates answering honestly, but ultimately, he resists the temptation. He needs Alana- more than she realises and he cannot risk her faith. Jack has the scent of something now and while it may not lead him to Will, it may lead him to other things. Hannibal needs to contain this.

‘I think you know well enough that things have not been easy between us of late,’ Hannibal says, eyes down on the counter. ‘Will and I. Not just from his illness.’ 

Alana moves in his periphery, but not closer. ‘I know you’ve been unhappy.’ 

‘Not unhappy,’ Hannibal says because he wants that clear. Disappointed, perhaps, would be closer. ‘Distant, I think.’

‘Distance can breed unhappiness,’ Alana says to him. ‘There’s no shame in admitting yourself to be unhappy, Hannibal.’

‘Is that what you told Will?’ Hannibal asks, careful as he switches to offensive. Alana makes a small noise as he looks up at her. ‘When he told you he was unhappy.’

‘He never said that,’ Alana says, chary. 

‘He didn’t say the words, you mean? That did not stop you from supplying them. 

Guilt flushes Alana’s cheeks with pink. ‘Do you have something you want to ask me?’

‘Is this what we are reduced to now, Alana? Sharing accusations across the kitchen.’ 

‘That depends. Are you accusing me of something?’

She’s trying to direct this conversation a particular way. Her guilt is manifesting as something with thorns, ready to pierce and Hannibal tries to side-step. He can’t alienate her now and he will not let her misguided sense of responsibility deter him. Hannibal keeps her eye, lowers his shoulders.

‘No,’ he says wearily, straightening the cuffs of his shirt. ‘Forgive me, Alana. I’m just worried for Will. Worried that yesterday morning may have been the last time I spoke with him.’ What Hannibal says next is entirely genuine. ‘I am not sure what I will do if that is true.’  

‘It won’t be true.’ 

‘You said yourself we cannot know,’ Hannibal says. ‘The amount of blood found has filled me with an unease. I have lost much in my life, Alana. If I lose Will also I don’t know how I will be.’

Alana abandons her questions. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t- I can’t imagine how hard this must be. I’ve just spent so long worrying about Will, but sort of knowing deep down that he would also be alright.’

Hannibal knows exactly what she means.

‘Now that he might not be has scared me,’ she says and the coffee machine clicks itself off. ‘I’m scared, Hannibal. I feel like my hands are tied behind my back, like I can’t reach out and help pull Will out.’

This Hannibal also feels he understands. It’s uncomfortable- Hannibal is not impotent. ‘We can’t lose hope.’

‘No,’ Alana says, pouring coffee into two cups. ‘No, we can’t. I’ll come with you to the press meeting tomorrow, if you like.’ 

‘Thank you. I would appreciate it.’

Alana retrieves milk from the fridge. ‘You said you didn’t read Freddie’s article?’

‘I have not had the time.’

‘I know you’re going to read it, though you really shouldn’t.’

‘You could just tell me what she has said that’s so awful.’

‘I think you can guess.’

Hannibal can. But he takes his phone from his pocket anyway and opens _TattleCrime._ Best to go into the fray armed, after all.


	12. Will Graham: October 23rd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I do not like to work with patients who are in love... Perhaps it is because love and psychotherapy are fundamentally incompatible._   
>  **Dr. Irvin D. Yalom**

**October 23rd, 2018**

 

_It’s 1:13am. My name is Will Graham. And I’ve just learned a secret._

Will is drunk when Hannibal comes home from the _Hope and Progress_ gala at John Hopkins. Not _wake up sick and dumb_ drunk. But drunk enough to ruin something. And Will is in the mood for ruin.

Hannibal comes into the living room, stops in the doorway as he assesses what’s in front of him. The fire is lit but dying, Winston is banished to some other room and Will sits in Hannibal’s chair, a quarter ways into a bottle of Hannibal’s expensive Irish whiskey. The whole room is curling in on amber edges- like paper singed and coiling in a fire too hot.

‘What has happened?’ Hannibal asks, calm but not detached. Soft.

Will thought until this afternoon that he makes Hannibal soft. Will’s heart turns over like in a skillet and is seared on both sides. He does not say his first thought: _you._ Hannibal is what’s happened.

‘I figured something out today,’ Will says instead with faux-cheer, drinking from his glass. The whiskey is caramel sweet beneath the bitter alcohol.

Hannibal stands straighter, one shoulder back. Straight into the defence. He’s like a snake, spiral deep and ready to strike and Will sinks lower into the chair, feet skirting the floor. Hannibal looks handsome in his tuxedo, but then, Will always thinks Hannibal looks handsome.

‘And what is that?’ Hannibal says and there it is. That’s the tone Will is expecting. The tone of a man who’s sure he’ll win the fight. Will pinches his nose for second, rubs his eye where it blurs from the drink.

‘That if you’re listening for me in your library it’s not because you want me there. You’re just checking the doors.’

Hannibal flinches, just slightly. Will is a mean drunk. Learned it from his father.

It’s coming now. The flood, and soon all of it will be gone. Washed away in the roar of a wave.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You never do.’

‘Then explain it to me.’

‘Because you always need me to,’ Will says and this could be any fight, from any marriage. Will sounds petty, Hannibal sounds slow. But this is not any marriage and neither of those things are true. Will tilts his head. ‘You never know what I’m thinking.’

It’s observation, not criticism.

‘I do. Most times.’

‘You know what I should be thinking and adapt to such, that is not the same.’

‘It’s what I can do.’

‘You predict. You’re like a fucking weatherman steeling against the hurricane.’

‘I could never hope to entirely predict you,’ Hannibal concedes but that’s not what Will’s talking about.

‘Not entirely, but often enough,’ Will says. ‘I see it now. Small punishment, I suppose. When I turn in a direction you don’t like and then everything has to stop as you carve course correction. Get us right back on track.’

Will looks up at the ceiling, at the firelight that swirls there.

‘I think you give me too much credit,’ Hannibal says, attempting humour but when Will laughs, the room shifts. The humour palls because Will’s laugh is cruel. Hannibal speaks, unsure: ‘Will?’

‘I think that’s one thing you couldn’t accuse me of,’ Will says and when he looks at Hannibal, Hannibal is carefully blank.

‘What do I accuse you of?’

‘Thanklessness.’

‘What should you thank me for, Will?’

‘What do you want?’ Will asks, bitter. ‘When you lie to me should I be grateful that you do it so well I believe you?’

Hannibal ripples, like water. All the way down his surface. Will does that to him, has been the only person who could manage it. Even now, it spikes pleasure hot in Will’s chest, the exclusivity of it- of them.

‘You think I’ve lied to you?’ Hannibal says and Will drinks his whiskey, hisses as he swallows. Hannibal flexes his right hand- habit. He steps forward. ‘What do you think I’m lying to you about?’

Will shakes his head, not answering. The whiskey burns his throat all the way down.

’Or perhaps you question our reciprocity,’ Hannibal says as Will watches yellow light stripe in his glass.

‘Do you think I lie to you?’ Will says, avoiding the question Hannibal doesn’t ask. Hannibal is so proud, so eager for control he won’t resist the chance to steer.

‘I think it gives you pleasure to deceive me.’

‘That’s not an answer. Do I deceive you, Hannibal?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hannibal says and it’s clear it wounds his pride to admit such. That’s something, at least. ‘I don’t believe so. I believe what you do is closer to obfuscation, an unconscious misdirection. I don’t believe you mean to hide the way you do.’

Will laughs again, can’t help it because in an awful way, that is truly funny. Hannibal does not smile back.

‘What I am thinking? Who am I right now?’ Will says, watching the irritation grow on Hannibal’s face. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? The things you wonder about.’

‘Do you think I could reduce you so easily?’

‘I think reducing me is the only thing you know how to do in this marriage.’

Hannibal looks away. Will expands inside with satisfaction. He’s found the wound to salt.

‘You search through me like a vivisection. You want to know where my nerves end to see if you can hurt me all the way to my centre.’

‘Do I hurt you, Will?’ Hannibal asks him.

‘Every day,’ Will replies, honestly. ‘You are… shaped by a very specific kind of violence. You slip the knife so gently I’ve spent the last few years thinking it kindness.’

Hannibal doesn’t answer that and he doesn’t move. Will wants him to move. He aches for him to move so Will can have an excuse.

‘Were you disappointed?’ Will pushes but he can’t meet Hannibal’s eye. 'With how I didn't work out?'

‘You could never disappoint me,’ Hannibal lies and Will has the violent urge to throw his glass across the room. He wants Hannibal’s fine things to shatter. Will is about to shatter. ‘Not now. Nor ever.’

‘You’re bored,’ Will says and Hannibal flickers. He’s out of tune, just slightly, to the melody. ‘You’re bored with the medium and looking to rediscover an old craft.’

‘I don’t know why you would think that.’

‘I don’t have to think, I can feel it,’ Will says, scoffing. ‘It’s underneath my skin like a fever. One more sickness, I guess.’

Hannibal steps forward and Will winces, just from the very idea that Hannibal might touch him now. Hannibal notices and stops.

‘I’m jealous,’ Will admits to him. Another swallow of whiskey. He watches the fire. ‘I’m so jealous it’s threatening to eat me out alive. I wonder if you’ll be jealous if even this gets the chance to pick me out between its teeth before you?’

Hannibal notices the turn of phrase but says nothing. Will knows what Hannibal is thinking, can feel it oozing from his corner and seeping around Will’s ankles. But Hannibal doesn’t know for certain, won’t take the chance. Will knows, because Hannibal goes far but always stops at _too much_ and Will does not understand why. What has Hannibal got to lose from him now? What has Hannibal even wanted to go this far to begin with?

‘We should talk in the morning.’

‘We can’t talk now? Are you only happy to talk when I’m in a good enough position to fight you through it?’ Will retorts with a fury he is trying to contain. ‘Is this too inelegant for you?’

‘Will. Enough.’

‘You have our marriage so finely designed it shouldn’t surprise me you’d have this planned down to the letter as well.’

‘You’re drunk. Where did you even find that bottle?’

‘Hannibal enters stage left. We set the scene. Only Will has forgotten his lines.’

‘You are not yourself.’

‘How would I know one way or another? You’ve been making me something different from the day we met,’ Will says bitterly, staring down at his drink.

The silence that follows weighs in Will’s bones.

‘Maybe there’s nothing to me at all, never has been. Maybe all I am is some cursed mirror, the kind people covered at funerals to stop the dead getting trapped.’ Will takes a long swallow, tastes nothing. ‘Maybe you’re just not happy because what I’m reflecting now is you.’

Hannibal is still quiet and Will knows what he’s thinking. He shuts his eyes, unwilling to look at it as it rings around in his ears. Hannibal is reconsidering, is quiet because he hopes this is not what it is. He’s out of luck. Will knows everything now.

‘Probably for the best,’ Will says and starts, because he feels tears. He’s going to cry. ‘I just feel bad for the man who kissed you in that kitchen all those years ago. If he’d known then that he wasn’t who you wanted, if he’d known then he was just the placeholder for what you could make of him maybe he would’ve made a better decision.’

‘Will…’ Hannibal says and the name cracks in his mouth. Will winces, can’t bear to see Hannibal feigning the concern.

‘Sorry to not meet your standards,’ Will says honestly and it’s self-pitying, but Will can’t bring himself to care. Can’t bring himself to care about any of it.

‘Let’s go to bed. I think you’ve had enough,’ Hannibal says and Will is justified.

Hannibal thinks he understands now. Hannibal hasn’t understood a thing about Will in months, possibly never has.

‘Nowhere near,’ Will says, pouring another to make the point. He swirls the glass. ‘I saw you with her, you know.’

The room goes cold. Hannibal is still, hands tight and Will waits to see what he’ll do. Will has him in a corner, gagged by his own alibi. Hannibal won’t tell Will it _isn’t what it seems._ He can’t and Will knows it.

It still hurts. It still twists his gut like a wrench when Hannibal doesn’t even try to defend himself. Hannibal would rather do this to them than admit the truth and ultimately, it’s that which snaps Will’s patience in two.

‘How blind you made me,’ Will says and Hannibal looks away. He’s the picture of shamed husband. It boils inside of Will until everything scalds away to the nerve. ‘I bet you’re proud of it.’

Hannibal rests a hand on the back of the couch as Will takes a long, long swallow. ‘When did you see me?’

‘This afternoon. Street in Madison Park.’

Hannibal unbuttons his tuxedo jacket. He’s already trying to restring the instrument, plucking along the lines to see where the notes go awry. Will hates him for it. He hates Hannibal so vividly it wounds.

‘Camilla Ritchson. The woman I was with. She’s a speaker for the neuropsychiatry conference this week.’

‘Don’t care who she is.’

Hannibal removes his jacket. Lays it carefully on the back of the couch. His cummerbund is deep crimson.

‘Whatever you saw, is it possible you misinterpreted?’

Will goes for another drink but the whiskey is gone, glass empty. ‘Really? That’s how you want this conversation to go?’

‘I feel this conversation is already out of my control,’ Hannibal says with the same tone someone might note it’s raining. A minor inconvenience. ‘Are you questioning my fidelity, Will?’

‘I question your faithfulness,’ Will snaps, drunk. This, from a certain perspective, is true.

‘Or faithlessness.’

‘Is there a difference?’

‘It's the difference between you and I, I suppose.’

Will chokes, stunned. ‘Is that supposed to be a comfort for me?’

‘A small one, perhaps.’

‘No,’ Will says, rising from the chair and regretting it. The whiskey has him dizzy for a moment, legs loose- more than he thought it would. He waves to keep Hannibal away. ‘That isn’t small comfort. That would be no comfort.’

‘What else am I to say?’ Hannibal is undoing his French cuffs, pocketing the cuff links as he goes. ‘You seem to have already made a decision.’

Will teeters on his unsteady feet as the fire cracks.

‘You told me you were working,’ Will says, throwing out the bait to see how Hannibal bites. Hannibal starts to slowly roll up his sleeves. ‘You lied.’

‘I was working, she is a colleague.’

‘You tie a scarf for all your colleagues?’ Will stabs when Hannibal still refuses to confess. Hannibal only has two options- both likely to end in blood. ‘When hers fell you were quick to help. Did you tell her you’re married?’

‘I have my ring.’

‘That’s a no,’ Will says, and he reaches for the bottle. Hannibal says his name in soft scold. _Will._ Will’s hands are swaying so he spills some whiskey on the floor. ‘We wear our rings on the right hand. American woman’s not going to assume. You didn’t want her to assume.’  
  
‘I can’t be held responsible for what she does or doesn’t see, Will.’

‘Sins of omission.’ Will clicks his tongue. ‘Your specialty.’  
  
Hannibal physically recalibrates. It’s like his bones are being reset beneath his skin. He strides forward with purpose, stops just close enough and holds a hand out. When Will does nothing, Hannibal takes the bottle himself and puts it on the table. He does nothing else and they stand, facing each other.  
  
‘Adultery,’ Hannibal says plainly and Will tips his glass, as though toasting. ‘Is that what you’re accusing me of, Will?’  
  
‘I don’t care if you slept with her,’ Will says and he truly doesn’t. It hardly matters at this point. Hannibal pulls the face he always does when Will is crude. Will loved that face before this afternoon. ‘I care about the person I was this morning.’  
  
‘Have you changed so greatly from one day to another?’ Hannibal asks and he’s so close Will can smell him. Cologne bitter and masculine warm. ‘The glass, Will.’  
  
‘Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted for me?’ Will retorts, moving his hand away from where Hannibal cautiously reaches for the glass within it. He rocks unsteady. ‘So confident in your ability you made a vow to it.’  
  
‘Give me the glass, Will. And then we can talk as long as you like.’  
  
‘Are you going to lie me?’  
  
Hannibal’s expression is the crest of a wave. It threatens to engulf once it breaks against Will’s shore. ‘Do you want me to lie to you?’  
  
Will doesn’t know. He had been so sure a few minutes ago but things are merging now. The grief is leaking, staining Will’s thoughts. He moves away when Hannibal reaches for him.  
  
‘Do what you like. Doesn’t change anything now.’  
  
‘I would like to explain.’  
  
‘And I would like to believe you,’ Will says honestly. ‘But I won’t.’  
  
Hannibal moves so quickly Will doesn’t see. Or perhaps Will is just that drunk now. But Hannibal’s hand is on his wrist and it _hurts._ Will hisses with the pain of it, jerks hard to get out of Hannibal’s grip. He stumbles back, feet catching over themselves. Will’s fingers slip.  
  
The glass hits the floor with an acute note.  
  
It shatters there. Will stares down at the glass, the fractured glittering pieces of it. The caramel whiskey is splattered like paint.  
  
‘Dear me,’ Hannibal says mildly, taking Will’s other hand. This one he holds gently, as though the other isn’t bruising. ‘How clumsy, you are. I knew you would break it.’  
  
It’s not the glass. Will tries to look at Hannibal’s face, but his gaze keeps slipping. He feels like he could lie down, like he could sleep so very suddenly.  
  
‘You- you broke us first,’ Will manages to say, words slurring. Things are blurring, Hannibal’s face shifting with the shadows of the room. Something dark is moving, Hannibal’s skin too small for what Will sees beneath it. ‘What’s happening?’  
  
‘I think you’ve had too much, my dear.’  
  
‘No…’ Will’s shaking his head but he can’t feel it, can’t feel much of any of it. ‘This isn’t right.’  
  
‘Stay with me, Will.’

‘I’m... I’m tired?’ Will says because it’s true. It’s frightfully true. It’s as though the world is shutting its eye on him.

‘Let me take care of you,’ Hannibal says and he does. He gathers Will to him where Will stumbles, keeps him upright. Will doesn’t want to be touched but he’s too heavy to hold himself up all of a sudden.

Hannibal brings Will to their bed, undresses him. Will feels as though he’s already asleep, like he’s slipped into a dream. Time is funny now. Will is too quick and Hannibal is too slow. They’re out of sync and everything is blurring. There are dark shapes moving in the corner of their bedroom, coiling deep with tendrils sharp.

Will is staring at the ceiling a long while before he realises he’s lying down. That Hannibal is pulling the blanket up over him. ‘Time to rest now.’

‘I don’t…’ Will feels _wrong._ This sleep is too warm around him. It’s toothless- no nightmares to bite, it is unnaturally kind. ‘No, no. Let me go.’

‘You’re already home,’ Hannibal says, his hand in Will’s hair and Will’s eyes close. ‘Everything will be alright, Will.’

Will doesn’t believe him. But he wants to.  
  
Will is submerged beneath black water. It swirls and gulps around him, swallowing him down and he can’t see anything. He feels like his lungs will burst, his ribs crack from the way they are swelling inside with a scream Will can’t let out. He tries to swim but he just keeps sinking. He’s sinking so very deep, is howling and letting more water in, and in, and in....

When Will wakes again, it’s morning. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, or getting to bed. He’s lethargic in the covers, his body so heavy as he tries to turn. Hannibal is lying next to him.

Hannibal opens his eyes, entirely awake. He touches Will’s cheek with two fingers. ‘Are you well, Will?’

‘I… I’m not sure,’ Will says, voice croaking. He has a headache. He may even throw up once the room stops spinning. ‘No. Not well.’

‘Do you need help to the bathroom?’

‘What happened?’ Will asks, careful to breathe deep to stave off the nausea. ‘What happened last night?’

Hannibal is quiet just a beat too long. ‘What do you remember?’

The smell of the fire. Putting Winston to the back room. Hannibal soothing the hurt. Hannibal always soothes the hurt. The glass breaking. It’s a mismatch, half remembered and Will feels a small panic.

‘Not much,’ he says and it frightens him. He’s not lost a memory since his early twenties in university. ‘I was drinking.’

‘Yes. Quite heavily.’

‘No,’ Will says, putting a hand to his uneasy stomach. ‘Not heavily. I was being careful.’

‘I’m sure you thought so,’ Hannibal says, fond. ‘I came home to find you near asleep already before I moved you.’

Will can’t remember if that’s true. He remembers words, Hannibal’s hands. It feels like a dream, foggy and molten. He thinks he’s remembering the conversation, if it happened, backwards. Everything resonates around the glass he broke. It stands out so clearly.

‘I broke one of our glasses.’

Hannibal breathes a small laugh. ‘No, but you certainly gave it an effort in your clumsiness.’

 _You’re lying,_ Will realises and Hannibal looks at him. It’s not enough for Will all of a sudden.

‘Do you remember why you were drinking?’ Hannibal asks amiably and he must know Will wouldn’t forget about the woman. The knowledge her presence gave. He’s offering Will an opportunity.

Reciprocity, Hannibal had called it. Hannibal has never asked Will to lie before. It's the snap of a small bone.

‘No,’ Will croaks back and Hannibal’s eyes flicker, just slightly as he considers. ‘Whatever it was, definitely not worth it.’

‘No?’

Will shakes his head rather than answer. ‘Will you make me coffee?’

‘Is your stomach up for it?’

‘Don’t know. Make it for me and find out.’

Hannibal leans down and presses his lips to Will’s forehead before he leaves the bed, taking his robe with him.

Will lies alone, shrouded in the dark of Hannibal’s heavy curtains. Will doesn't remember the night- but he remembers the day.   
  
Everything ended yesterday, Will remembers. He raises a hand to brush at his sweating forehead, only to stop as he looks at his wrist. It's mottled, not quite purple but brown in bruise. Will sighs, releases the air inside as he sees all too clearly what must've happened. Will sees everything now. He lets the hand fall back to the bed.   
  
Will wonders if he could've dreamed it. Things had been slipping- have been slipping- for some time. Since Abigail died. But there's a wound inside, a cavernous swell of knowledge. Everything has fallen into that pit. Will can't unknow. Will has not known for so long, it's foreignness in his gut sticks like a knife. Right now, that is all that feels real to him.   
  
Hannibal returns after longer than expected, with a tray of coffee and some breakfast. Devilled kidneys, he says and a very large cup of coffee. Will thinks he might cry, so he turns into the pillow, claiming an upset stomach. Hannibal sits on the bed, touches Will’s hair.   
  
Will thinks about what Hannibal would do if the roles were reversed. The part that stings- the part that hurt yesterday and still hurts today- is that Hannibal would probably love Will more if they were. It could even be the only way he ever might.  
  
Will curls in, makes himself smaller and Hannibal touches the back of his neck like he always does when he tries to pull Will back from a thought that swoops down beneath him like a cliff.   
  
‘What will I do with you?’ Hannibal asks, amused.  
  
Will is wondering the exact same thing.

 

* * *

 

Jack calls late that evening for the first time in nearly eleven months.  
  
‘Hello, Jack,’ Will says from where he’s perched at the end of the couch. Hannibal ceases his playing on the harpsichord and when Will looks, Hannibal is watching him.  
  
_‘_ Will,’ Jack says and Hannibal’s brow creases with slight irritation. ‘How’re you? How’s Hannibal?’  
  
‘Fine. We’re fine. What do you want?’  
  
Jack hesitates. No doubt debating whether or not to pretend any further now Will has cut straight through, but practicality beats polite every time with Jack; ‘I want you to look at something for me.’  
  
‘I’m retired.’  
  
‘I just need you to look once,’ Jack says like that isn’t a plead. Will tosses the journal he was reading onto the coffee table. It slips along the surface, almost off entirely. ‘I think it’s him. The Ripper.’  
  
‘Why do you only think it is?’  
  
Jack doesn’t answer straight away but Will understands. He doesn’t want it to be the Ripper either. If it is, Will isn’t sure how he can refuse, he only knows that he has to.  
  
He looks at Hannibal again, at how Hannibal is making notes to his music sheet as though he isn’t listening. Will knows he’s listening very carefully.  
  
‘Victim is male, mid thirties. His eyes are missing, as are the lungs and one kidney. He’s been blind-folded and the wrists slit. Daffodils have been threaded through the veins, sticking out so it looks like he’s holding them.’  
  
It sounds beautiful, Will thinks. Persephone had been too blind in her happiness to see the flowers were narcissus and once she chose them, she had been doomed. Hades had bound her by the very fingers she’d picked with, wrapping her sentence with a golden band.  
  
‘It’s clean. It’s absolutely perfect, so we’re almost sure. Just come take a look. I could really use you on this.’  
  
Will takes a moment to think.  
  
He thinks about the brutality. The brushstroke savagery the Ripper, if it is him, has left behind. He thinks of bodies, of blood and nails ripped off from the way everyone clings to that one last moment. It’s an incessant whisper in Will’s ear, a quiet taunting. Invitation.  
  
Will also thinks about his marriage. How the last case he worked nearly tore him from it last winter, how the last case was the _last case_ for a reason. Randall Tier had been a creature of vicious hunger. He’d followed Will from the crime scene. Broke a window on their back porch. Will had had to beat him to death with his bare hands, Winston growling low from the corner of the kitchen.  
  
Hannibal had arrived after Jack then. Everyone had parted like the Red Sea, the air changing shape with Hannibal’s presence. When Hannibal had gotten Will into his arms that night, alone and bruised, he’d kissed the blood off Will’s knuckles. Will hadn’t washed it off on purpose. He’d known Hannibal would’ve wanted to see.  
  
When they'd slept together that night, Will had smeared blood turned loose with sweat against Hannibal's body. He had known then, felt it like retribution, that there is something truly terrible inside of him. It has teeth, it breathes fire and sinking into Hannibal's body, looking at the starved look on Hannibal's face had made Will realise that no one else can possibly contain such a thing for him but Hannibal.   
  
If Will brings the Ripper back to their bed, he’s certain they could not survive it the same way. If they were to survive it at all.   
  
‘I can’t, Jack,’ Will says and Hannibal’s pen stops moving. Jack groans with impatience down the line.  
  
‘We’re long overdue, Will. More than that, it’s been nearly three years. I just need you for one day, an hour even. We need to be certain and I need you to help me be certain.’  
  
‘You’ll have to ask someone else to be certain.’  
  
Will still feels wrong. It could be the hangover, Will hasn’t one in a while but it just doesn’t seem to fit. He thinks Hannibal would be less sympathetic if it were a hangover. He's been remarkably careful all day. But what else could it be?  
  
‘Hannibal will understand, Will,’ Jack says and that’s exactly what Will is afraid of. He’s afraid Hannibal will understand all too well. ‘He won’t stop you, you know.’  
  
Will does know, which is why he has to stop himself.  
  
‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ Will says and he is. ‘But I can’t.’  
  
Will hangs up the phone and turns it off. Hannibal’s may ring next but it’s upstairs. Hannibal doesn’t keep his with him once Will is in sight.  
  
‘What is it?’ Hannibal asks, perfectly mild after a long few moments of Will's silence.  
  
‘A body. Jack thinks the Ripper.’  
  
Hannibal touches the keys of his harpsichord before moving his hands back to his lap. ‘I would’ve thought if anything would tempt you back it would be that.’  
  
‘I don’t want to be tempted,’ Will says truthfully. The decision was made yesterday, though Will can only remember half of it. ‘I made a promise.’  
  
‘I didn’t ask you for a promise.’  
  
‘You never would,’ Will says to that. When he doesn’t continue, Hannibal rises from the instrument and walks over. He puts a hand to Will’s cheek, knuckles against Will's skin and Will closes his eyes, leaning into it. ‘Some promises we have to make to ourselves.’  
  
Hannibal leans down and just breathes. Will feels the muscle memory ache of wanting to tilt his chin, of wanting to rise and meet Hannibal halfway. He doesn’t and Hannibal moves away, lips untouched. Will wonders what he smells like. If Hannibal can smell love turned sour.  
  
‘I nearly lost you to one of Jack’s killers before.’  
  
‘I wouldn’t have stayed lost. I’m sure you would’ve found me.’  
  
‘All the same, forgive me for being nervous of releasing you back to him.’  
  
‘I’m not a prisoner,’ Will says and he thinks they both need to hear him say it.   
  
‘I don’t want to stop you from doing this if it is what you decide to do’ Hannibal says and he sounds so sincere. But then he always has. Will hears the quiet threat beneath- Hannibal doesn’t want to, but he will if he has to.

It’s a test.  
  
Will turns his face, grazes his lips against Hannibal’s large palm. ‘I won’t decide and then you won’t have to. That job nearly killed me. Nearly killed you.’  
  
‘But it didn’t. Here we are, alive to make the same choices all over again.’  
  
'Like Sisyphus. I'm sick of watching the rock roll back down.'  
  
'Are you really so doomed? Even after all this time?'  
  
‘Do you want me to go?’ Will asks, meeting Hannibal’s eye and holding it. ‘Do you want me to see what the Ripper has left for me?’  
  
Hannibal doesn’t answer at first, is so tall above Will in this moment.  
  
‘Do you think the Ripper left this body for you?’  
  
‘I think once he knows I’m looking he won’t be able to stop himself.’ Will squeezes his eyes shut, tries to shut out the memories that flicker through him. ‘I want him to stop.’  
  
‘Then you will have to go. Jack won't be enough without you.’  
  
‘Maybe he’ll stop on his own,’ Will suggests. ‘I’m tired of being the one to make them stop. All of them. It’s too much and-’  
  
Will chokes suddenly, the breath gone from him. His lungs are raw.   
  
‘All right,’ Hannibal says gently, his hand going into Will’s hair. ‘It’s all right.’  
  
_It isn’t,_ Will thinks. It may never be alright again. But Hannibal keeps saying it.  
  
‘Would you care?’ Will asks, opening his eyes again to look at Hannibal’s face. 'If I chose to go?'

Time is a funny thing, Will thinks. If this had been yesterday this conversation would be so different. They’re not who they were yesterday, but Hannibal is doing an impeccable job of pretending to be. Will feels like he's got one foot in the past and the other in an unknown future.  
  
‘I don’t care if you go,’ Hannibal replies, bending his knees so they’re level. ‘All that matters to me is you come back.’  
  
Will doesn't know his way back. 

 _Come for me,_ Will thinks as Hannibal leaves him, stepping back to the harpsichord.   
  
The room fills with music and Will closes his eyes, trying to imagine himself growing large enough to fill the corners of the lie that swells around them. 

 

* * *

 

 

Will keeps walking until he can hear them bickering. When he beeps into the room, card access still unchanged since his resignation last year, Price and Zeller don’t even stop to notice.

The room smells of the chemicals in the body that lies on the slab. Uncovered, Will can’t help but look at it.

The victim is black and his skin has turned violet with death. Porcelain perfect, the Ripper has shown no obvious violence but for the wrists, which are upturned and show the deep devastation wrought there. Will can see so clearly how the daffodils would’ve been threaded through, stalks and veins and sinew all sewed in together so the flowers would hold so perfect in the victim’s outstretched hands.  
  
A gift. Or perhaps a penance. If the killer saw a difference.

‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ Price says cheerily as Will closes his eyes, looking away before he sees too much.

‘Or the Ripper, more like,’ Zeller says, less cheery. ‘Nothing like a good murder to get in the way of cosy retirement.’  
  
‘It’s not quite the same watching dear old Angela Lansbury poke about the hydrangeas with all that free time, you know. Can’t blame you, Will. There’s nothing like putting on the old paisley cardigan and hopping right back on the horse.’  
  
‘Is it still right back on after a year?’  
  
‘I think the point is the coming back part,’ Price says to that with a raised hand, gloved finger pointed. He watches Will from the side of his eye, gaze dropping to what’s in Will’s hands. ‘I suppose you’ll want to know the details, yes?’  
  
‘I’m not here for the Ripper,’ Will says, swallowing around the guilt that starts to well up. ‘Is Beverly here?’  
  
‘Deposed in court.’  
  
‘More like disposed in court. What do you need?’  
  
Will considers his options before recklessness kicks in. He holds out the porcelain ware he’s brought with him, over the body like a bridge.  
  
Price takes it with two careful hands as Zeller leans over his shoulder, taller and dark eyes inspecting. He looks at Will suspiciously; ‘What’s this? You didn’t come all the way down here to bribe us with lunch, have you?’  
  
‘If Hannibal cooked it I’d be inclined to take it, I won’t lie,’ Price says and Will tries not to wince.  
  
‘I want you to test it,’ Will says and he feels both pairs of eyes on him.  
  
Price holds the ware a little further away from himself. ‘And what are we testing for? Exactly?’  
  
‘I… don’t know,’ Will says, having not thought much further than this. He hadn’t thought either of them would care enough to ask him, taking his general strangeness for granted. ‘Just anything that shouldn’t be there.’  
  
‘Is this your food?’  
  
‘I was unwell the other night,’ Will says, trying to think of a way to explain without sounding paranoid. Judging by the looks on both their faces, he is not succeeding. ‘I guess I’m just ruling out the options.’  
  
‘Think your husband is out to poison you, Graham?’ Price asks, sounding more serious now. Will fidgets, looking anywhere but at them. He ends up staring at the sunken eyelids of the corpse on the table. He wonders what the Ripper did with them.  
  
‘Not quite. It’s him.’  
  
‘Hannibal?’  
  
Will shakes his head once. ‘The Ripper. This man was killed by the Ripper. When will you have the results?’  
  
‘You know, we have other things going on right now,’ Zeller says, making a show of pointing at the body. ‘We’re not your GP. If you think you have food poisoning, go take some Pepto-Bismol.’  
  
‘What makes you so sure this man was killed by the Ripper?’ Price asks but Will is already closing that door, already trying to pull back from the feathered edge of ruin.  
  
‘Please,’ Will says, forcing himself to look Zeller in the eye. Zeller goes stiff, as if Will has done something unpleasant. ‘I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure I needed the help.’  
  
‘Do you need help?’ Price says, handing the ware over to Zeller who takes it with a look of great alarm. Will has seen Zeller look at several body parts with less dismay that he now regards the blue-diamond pattern on the ware.  
  
Price walks around the slab, looking worried. Will steps back, holding a hand up as though surrendering.  
  
‘I should go.’  
  
‘Hey, Will-’  
  
‘Thanks,’ Will says, turning on his heel and leaving. Price doesn’t follow him and Will keeps his eyes to the floor as he walks.  
  
He gets a call four hours later, almost five. Will is sitting on the bed in their house, Hannibal stoking a fire for them to sleep with. Hannibal watches Will, face cast in red firelight and Will says nothing to what Price says except _thank you._  
  
Pork. Dairy. Oil. Nothing strange. Nothing to explain. Will puts the phone down, thoughtful.  
  
‘Will, is everything all right?’ Hannibal asks, sitting at the end of the bed. He puts a hand on Will’s bare ankle, fingers warm from the fire. Will blinks, is displaced from the familiarity of Hannibal shirtless in their bed. Like they’re telling the truth again, which of course they’re not.  
  
‘Everything’s fine,’ Will says, smiling. Hannibal doesn’t smile back, but he does lean down. Bends his body in half so he can press a kiss to Will’s knee through the thin pyjama pants. Will puts a hand in his hair and wonders why keeping a secret should feel as easy as it does.

 

* * *

 

‘Do you have a chain?’ Will asks when he walks into the study, a few days later.  
  
Hannibal looks up from his notebook, eyes tracking from Will’s face to Will’s hand. Will is holding his wedding ring there, the gold band of it bright from the autumn sunlight that streams in. Hannibal closes his notebook and rises from the chaise.  
  
‘I’m changing the oil filter on the car,’ Will offers by explanation.   
  
‘Your car,’ Hannibal specifies, walking over. Will’s never removed his ring for anything before. Neither of them mention it. ‘I don’t believe I have a chain. Would you like me to mind it for you while you work?’  
  
Will hesitates. Taking it off and handing it back are two very different things. Hannibal stands before, waits patiently for Will to decide. Will holds it out and Hannibal takes it, but as he does Will reaches up with his other hand and holds the side of Hannibal’s neck.  
  
He uses it as an anchor to lean forward and press a kiss to the corner of Hannibal’s mouth. ‘Thank you. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour.’  
  
‘I’ll keep it safe for you,’ Hannibal promises sincerely. It’s too small for Hannibal to wear himself, so he takes his pocket square out. He wraps Will’s ring inside blue silk and pockets it.  
  
It's been days, but Will still doesn't know how to move around what their marriage is now. Will thinks about it as he looks at his own thumb on Hannibal’s neck, rubbing where the cuff of Hannibal’s shirt starts.  
  
Hannibal decides things so easily. He decided they would lie, and then he just did. Will feels like he can never make up his mind, resolve constantly shifting on sand. He wants the truth because he knows it. But the temptation to surrender, to this-    
  
‘What is it, Will?’ Hannibal asks. He sounds concerned. 'Are you well?'  
  
Will blinks, coming back to the present as though waking.  
  
‘Fine,’ he lies, kissing Hannibal again. It's all they do now, a straight line between these two points. ‘See you in a bit.’  
  
Will changes the filter. He takes longer than his half hour. When he comes into the house through the back, the kitchen is empty.  
  
Will washes his hands with the lavender soap Hannibal keeps at the sink and heads towards the study. Hannibal is gone and before Will can go further, he hears the Bentley pull away from the front of the house. Will knows the sound of it anywhere.  
  
Later, Will is roused from where he’s fallen into a light sleep on the couch by Winston yelping with excitement. Will can hear Winston’s claws clatter on the floor, can hear the sound of Hannibal taking off his coat. Will closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep.  
  
He listens to Hannibal walk in, listens to Winston no doubt get under his feet. Hannibal walks close, hovers silently. And then he leaves.  
  
When Will opens his eyes, he sees a small box on the table and his wedding ring next to it. Inside the box is a chain- silver in colour but knowing Hannibal likely to be white gold, and incredibly fine. So delicate Will feels he might snap it.  
  
Will slips his ring onto it and loops the chain over his neck. It hangs low enough that it won’t be seen beneath his shirt. Will presses a hand over it, feels it under his clothes.  
  
He leaves the ring there, around his neck. When he joins Hannibal for dinner, neither of them say a word about it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And back down south again.


End file.
